Under one roof
by EllisHendricks
Summary: Sherlock and Molly are now only weeks away from the birth of their first child, and John and Rosie are now living downstairs in a renovated 221C. This is a sequel to my previous stories, 'Completely Backwards' and 'Still Backwards', but will hopefully still make sense if you haven't read them. Mostly Sherlolly fluff at the moment. Features appearances by the Holmes clan!
1. Chapter 1

The builders were calling it a night as John arrived home after his shift, and he moved his bike aside so that they could manoeuvre out of the front door with their ladders and equipment. One of them, he noticed, gave him a bit of a strange look, suppressing a smile – no doubt something to do with his cycling Lyrcras again. London was full of cyclists, so why was the sight of a man in his forties wearing entirely appropriate cycling gear something worth smirking about? He got enough of stick like that from Sherlock.

As he wrestled the bike in through the front door and attempted to prop it where it would be most out of the way, the door to his flat opened and Mrs Hudson came hurrying towards him, a frown on her face and a finger against her lips.

"You're worse than the builders with that thing," she scolded. "It's taken me an hour to get Rosie down to sleep."

"Sorry," John muttered, slightly disappointed that he had missed the opportunity to say goodnight to his little girl. The paperwork that went with being a GP was getting more onerous by the week. "But thank you for getting her down."

"She was exhausted, poor dear," Mrs Hudson. "But she's a stubborn little thing and wouldn't settle. We went out for a little drive to calm her down."

John felt his eyes widen as the realisation dawned.

"In the Aston Martin?" he balked.

She looked at him in the same patient way she regarded his infant daughter.

"Of course! What else? I don't have a fleet of cars stashed away in a secret underground garage, John."

"To be honest, Mrs Hudson, nothing much would surprise me these days."

Apart from anything, he acknowledged he was slightly miffed that Rosie had taken a ride in Mrs Hudson's pretty spectacular sports car when she hadn't so much as allowed him to sit in it.

"We just went for a little pootle around, we weren't drag-racing on Horse Guard's Parade," the older woman continued. "Rosie loves it when we go out for a little spin. 'Course it won't work when Molly and Sherlock's little one comes along – not enough space."

John unclipped his helmet and hung it on the handlebars of his bike, doing his best to straighten his hair.

"Yeah, Astons aren't really designed with multiple baby seats in mind," he replied.

Mrs Hudson smiled, throwing a glance towards the upstairs flat before returning her gaze to him.

"Well, it's nice to have that problem," she smiled, patting him on the arm.

"Yeah," John agreed, returning the smile. "It is."

He knew how much her makeshift family meant to Mrs Hudson, and that she considered Rosie – and Sherlock and Molly's imminent arrival - to be her grandchildren. He still found it slightly surreal that his two best friends were about to become parents (and he strongly suspected that he was about to become swept up in a whole new world of Sherlock-directed chaos), but he had to admit that the excitement was contagious.

"I've had the slow-cooker on all day, so there's a casserole almost ready," Mrs Hudson said. "Enough for all of you. Tell Sherlock when you pop up later, otherwise he'll be ordering take-away again – you're both past forty now and need to think about your salt intake."

"Er…thanks," John said, resisting the urge to remind his landlady about his medical degree. After all, there was a home-cooked meal at stake. He was about to move past her to head down to his flat when Mrs Hudson spoke again.

"I think he's at a bit of a loose end up there," she said, nodding towards the door of 221B. "He's been down here twice today, even took Rosie into the garden while I did the hoovering. I expect he's missing those really good murders."

"Hmm," John said in response, unsure he wanted to know how Mrs Hudson defined a 'really good murder'.

He had worried about how Sherlock would cope with the changes to his work, self-imposed though they were. Since Molly reached the halfway point of her pregnancy, he had been restricting himself to sixes and below (the occasional seven when it didn't appear too dangerous). Now that there were only five weeks until her due-date, he was no longer accepting clients at Baker Street and was trying to occupy himself with puzzling through cold-cases, mostly online. John knew this had to be mind-numbing for Sherlock, and in the old days it would have been enough for him to fall victim to his vices, but now there was the bigger picture to consider. Molly hadn't asked Sherlock to change his behaviour, to alter the way he worked, but she didn't need to – he did it without prompting and because he wanted to. The transformative nature of love was something to behold.

"Well, it won't be for much longer," he told her. "Molly finishes work at the end of the week."

Mrs Hudson's face broke into a smile.

"I know, and it's about time," she said. "Poor girl is on her feet all day in that place and she must be so uncomfortable. I suppose at least it isn't too warm for her there."

John gave a short laugh, but he couldn't help but feel sympathy for poor Molly. Mary would have told her she was lucky that she was 'all tummy', but these days it really looked like she was smuggling a watermelon under her lab coat – Lestrade had joked that there had to be a twin hiding in there, too, but it just seemed the baby did not take after its mother, size-wise.

"She'll keep him busy," John smiled. "Either that, or she'll drive him out of the flat with her DVD box sets. That's all Mary did in the weeks before Rosie arrived – watched films and complained about heartburn and her ankles."

"You shush, John Watson," Mrs Hudson admonished. "Men have no idea what women go through to bring their children into the world. It's Sherlock's turn to look after Molly, make a fuss of her."

John's eyebrows shot up to his hairline; that situation could go either way. He had witnessed a handful of spectacular shouting matches between Sherlock and Molly during this pregnancy, fuelled by fluctuating hormones and Sherlock's thick-headedness – but to be fair, he got the impression that the more explosive the argument, the more they enjoyed making up afterwards. And he knew it never ran very deep – strangely, considering who was involved, theirs was probably the most stable relationship John knew.

"Well, I'll go up and see him once I've had a shower," he told Mrs Hudson.

"Probably for the best, dear," she replied, giving the air a quick sniff. "I thought that smell was something the builders left behind."

"No, apparently it's me," he said, shortly, feeling small prickles of irritation up his back. Honestly, all he was trying to do was stay fit and do his bit for the city's carbon monoxide levels.

He took off his cycling cleats in an effort to enter the flat quietly and prevent waking his daughter. He didn't need to look behind him to know that Mrs Hudson was still there, hovering; he could feel her eyes on him.

"What?" he asked, without looking around.

"Oh, nothing dear," she replied lightly. "I've just never been sure about Lycra on men. Makes things seem a bit…familiar, that's all. Not quite decent."

Shuddering slightly – and forgoing a response – John made his way into his new home in 221C.


	2. Chapter 2

After taking a shower and putting a load of laundry into the machine, John made one final check on Rosie before going upstairs. The beauty of their new collective living arrangement meant that they were all essentially in the same house, so he didn't worry too much about popping up to see Sherlock and Molly when his daughter was asleep. Of course, he made himself check all of the windows and the back door before he went up, and made sure he picked up the receiving end of the baby monitor to take with him (only now did it seem worth the small fortune Mary insisted on spending on a video monitor).

He got no reply when he knocked at the door of his former flat. This, he knew, could mean a number of things, including that Sherlock was deep in his Mind Palace, that he was in the middle of another grotesque and noxious experiment – or he was just being an unsociable git.

Sighing, John knocked again and this time stepped inside. As he did so, a flash of orange fur darted past his ankles as Toby made a bid for freedom (he and Sherlock were still uneasy flatmates).

"Sherlock? I've been knocking, mate, didn't you-?"

He stopped dead in his tracks. Sherlock's flat had never been the most ordered of places, but now it looked like – well, what did it look like? A small explosion in Mothercare just about covered it. And in the middle of it stood his friend, in his shirtsleeves, and also in what at first glance looked like a straitjacket or harness. It took a few seconds for John to recognise it for what it was – and then he almost doubled over laughing.

"Sherlock, please tell me you haven't been stuck in that thing for hours and were waiting for Molly to come and rescue you?"

Sherlock gave him a dark stare, but John was having none of it; the deep blush on his friend's face still gave _him_ the upper hand.

"Can I take a photo?" John asked, grinning, reaching into his pocket for his phone. "For the blog?"

"Do it and I'll knock you on your arse," Sherlock growled.

"Well, for that to happen you'd probably have to have at least one of your hands free," he replied, knowing that his face was plastered with a smug smile. But it wasn't every day that you found Sherlock Holmes helpless and tangled up in a BabyBjorn carrier.

"So I take it you're not going to offer me your assistance?"

John rolled his eyes, doing his best to reign in his smile just slightly.

"Come here," he said, taking a few steps towards Sherlock. He assessed the situation, marvelling at how anyone could become so ridiculously entangled in a baby carrier. Quickly and efficiently, he unclipped the straps on the carrier, tugged Sherlock's arm through what was very clearly a hole for the baby's leg, and got him to pull the whole thing over his head.

"Thank you," Sherlock said, quietly. "That was surprisingly traumatic."

"Did you read the instructions?"

"Yes, John – and I watched several YouTube videos, but these things are clearly the devil's work, designed to make new fathers appear like incompetent buffoons."

"Well, it succeeded on that score," John grinned.

Sherlock huffed and straightened his crumpled shirt, moving to re-fasten the buttons at his cuffs.

"I just wanted to master it before it actually comes into use," he said, not looking at John. "I thought…Molly might find it helpful."

John immediately felt a spike of guilt at the enjoyment he'd had at his friend's expense (well, a small spike anyway). He had passed the baby carrier on to Molly a few weeks ago, now that Rosie was too heavy for it, but he'd expected that it would sit, forgotten, in the corner of the nursery, until Molly finished work and had enough time to look at it properly. He hadn't given Sherlock enough credit.

"Look, do you want me to show you?" he offered, forcing his face to return to neutral. "Molly doesn't have to know."

Sherlock gave a small nod, and John found himself giving a lesson in baby-wearing to the world's only consulting detective. Pushchairs were great (and you could shove a lot of crap underneath them), but in a city like London – and particularly on public transport – you couldn't beat a baby carrier.

"One thing missing," John noted, as they reached a crucial point in the lesson.

"Hm?"

"A baby."

Sherlock sighed, raising his eyebrow and aiming a look at John that conveyed sympathy for his stupidity.

"Yes, John, but as a doctor you will be aware that the average gestation period-"

"Be back in a sec."

John nipped down to his flat and returned a couple of minutes later with one of Rosie's dolls, the Baby Annabell that he considered his daughter far too young to have (present from a well-meaning Harry) – and whom Rosie most enjoyed throwing in the newly-dug flowerbeds out back.

"Baby," John said by way of explanation, handing the doll to a now-frightened-looking Sherlock.

"Don't worry, I'm sure yours will be much more photogenic than this. And hopefully less covered in soil."

With the substitute baby now included in the process, something seemed to click for Sherlock and within a couple of minutes was apparently a pro (that particular trait of his never got any less annoying, John noted). The smile on Sherlock's face was actually quite heart-warming, though, as he carefully packed away the BabyBjorn. John knew how much Sherlock wanted Molly to be able to count on him, how he wanted to be an informed help rather than a clueless hindrance – he recognised the feeling himself.

"Mrs Hudson's made a casserole," he said, his eyes roaming across the bewildering assortment of things scattered across the living room. "What time's Molly due back?"

"Not till late," Sherlock replied. "She's on until ten."

"Seems a bit harsh at this stage," John observed.

"Her decision," Sherlock said. "Think she can work at her own pace more easily on a late shift."

"So..er…what is all this stuff?" John asked, unable to keep his curiosity to himself any longer.

Amongst other things, there were at least seven laptops open on different surfaces throughout the room, not to mention a small library's worth of baby-related books (some of which John recognised as his own) and just about every baby item that had already been purchased for the soon-to-be-new-arrival.

Sherlock gave a small off-hand wave of his hand.

"I've just been familiarising myself with a few things," he said. "Conducting some research, comparing theories, trying to isolate the essential information."

"Yeah? How's that going?"

John remembered well how it felt to be plunged into the baffling world of parenting advice.

"I actually think it's possible that I know even less than I did when I woke up this morning," Sherlock sighed. "Do you know how many competing theories there are around breast-feeding, co-sleeping, controlled crying, napping routines and any number of things I wasn't aware that I should be concerned about until I embarked on this foolish endeavour?"

"Yup," John replied, taking a seat in what everything still considered to be 'his' chair. "Believe me, it _will_ drive you mad if you keep reading it. Some of it is guesswork, some of it is just trendy bullshit and some might save your sanity in the long-run – but you know, a lot of it comes down to instinct and common sense. Every baby is different."

"Thank you, yes," Sherlock replied, taking a seat opposite him. "My mother is very forthcoming on that particular topic."

John smiled. He knew that since the Big Holmes Family Showdown more than three months ago, Sherlock was genuinely trying to mend fences with his parents, whose excitement about their first grandchild could almost be felt from their home in Surrey. Although he gave the impression he found their interest and interventions to be somewhere between tiresome and agonising, John knew that on some level Sherlock wanted them to be proud of him.

It was at that point that John noticed a new feature to the room, what looked like a series of annotated maps stuck up on the wall behind Sherlock's desk. He squinted at them, trying to recall what Sherlock had mentioned he was last working on.

"The Wesley case?" he asked.

"I solved that one last Friday, John, try to keep up," Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes. "Just something I need to commit to memory."

John moved closer, picking his way over the discarded laptops and baby books. After a few seconds, he realised it was different versions of the same map, each with a route marked on with red ink – but the common factor was what was located at the centre of the page.

"Bart's Hospital?" he asked. "Why are you-?"

"I have been studying traffic camera footage, aggregating data from a roadworks app and using a police scanner - that I may or may not have borrowed from Lestrade a few years ago - to accurately deduce the fastest and most efficient routes to the maternity wing at Bart's, depending on the hour of the day and the area of London in which I am located at the time I get the call from Molly. Of course, in an ideal situation, we will both be here in this flat – in which case map 1 will apply - but I understand from my interactions with Rosamund that babies care little for the convenience of the adults around them."

John couldn't tell whether Sherlock was proud of this level of planning or whether he just considered it the absolute base level of normal for an expectant father.

"I…guess it's good to be prepared," he offered, unable to come up with anything better. "'Course, St Mary's is only a mile away."

He had made this point several weeks ago, but knew he was on a hiding to nothing.

"Yes," Sherlock replied. "Mycroft reiterated his offer to get Molly into the Lindo Wing there, but he's merely showing off. And besides, it's not what Molly wants. Nor I."

John had to smile; although there was something quite apt about Baby Holmes being delivered into the world in the same place as the future king of England, he felt that even the staff on the Lindo Wing would be ill-prepared for an anxious, fretful Sherlock Holmes. Molly probably knew this, too – she would know that as much as anything could keep Sherlock calm in that situation, familiar surroundings would help. Bart's was like a second home to Sherlock (he knew all of the shortcuts through the buildings that even some of the long-serving staff weren't aware of), and Molly was friendly with a number of the doctors on the maternity ward. And although neither had said it explicitly to him, John suspected that Bart's held a particular significance – it was the place, after all, where Sherlock and Molly first met (however inauspicious that first encounter might have been).

However, the baby wasn't due for nearly another six weeks, and if Sherlock was like this now, it was very possible that Molly was going to have to sedate him for the remaining waiting period.

"Have you done any actual work today?" he asked. "Can't believe I'm saying this, but it might actually be a helpful distraction."

Sherlock heaved a deep and dramatic sigh.

"Yes, John, I have been working. I solved three cases by email, two via Skype, and worked through a forty-year old cold case for Lestrade while I was in the queue at Tesco. I was also able to inform the plasterer that one of the carpenters is having a relationship with his daughter."

John's face pulled into a disbelieving smile.

"What?" Sherlock demanded.

"You went to Tesco?"

"We needed milk."

"Sherlock, in all the time that we shared this flat, you didn't once go out for milk," John said. "Oh, I stand corrected – you did it once, while Mary and I were in the throes of wedding planning."

He watched as Sherlock pursed his lips and frowned slightly, an expression he had come to recognise as a precursor to an admission of something.

"Actually, that was Archie."

"Who?"

"Your pageboy. He was surprisingly easy to bribe – all it took was the change from a five pound note and some photographs from the Horden case."

John remembered it – and its gangland-style executions – well.

"Well, I'm pleased you can bother your arse enough to buy your own groceries these days," he sighed. "I can't see Molly being too happy at you bribing your own child with small change and graphic violence."

"I'm a changed man, John," Sherlock declared, rising from his chair and moving around the room as he flipped down the lids of the laptops. "And to demonstrate as much, I will make the trip downstairs to retrieve the aforementioned casserole from Mrs Hudson."

That was an offer John wasn't expecting. As Sherlock left the room, he glanced down at the baby monitor to check on Rosie, who was still sleeping peacefully. He wouldn't stay long with Sherlock; just until Molly was safely through the door and he knew his friend could relax.

He noticed that Sherlock had missed one of the laptops, which still sat open on the occasional table beside Molly's new chair (not so new now, he supposed). He went across, intending to close the lid, but as his gaze passed over the open document, his hand stilled. He realised he was looking at a pair of lists, typed out in bullet form, and – one eye on the open door for Sherlock's return – he started to read.

The first list was titled 'Daily', and read as:

keep off cigs

eat something even if you don't want to

let Molly know where you are

compliment Molly

tell Molly you love her

The second list had 'This year' typed at the top and read as:

have baby

organise schedule of educational visits for Rosie

ask Molly

inform John about personal hygiene issue

The last bullet he had to read again, and for a fleeting moment his brain seemed to freeze as it decided how to respond. He actually started to run through the possibilities, feeling the tips of his ears begin to flush - but then his brain kicked in again and he understood what this was about. Of course. With Sherlock, nothing was what it initially seemed, and no route was direct. John knew he had been conditioned by his friend, and that his behaviour – in this case his nosiness – had been predicted, and in fact had been integral to a plan. All he had to do now is work out what that plan was. Why did Sherlock _really_ want him to read this seemingly innocuous document?

He scanned the pages again.

That was the moment when Sherlock returned, wearing a pair of oven gloves and carrying a casserole dish.

"Found anything interesting, John?" Sherlock asked, a look on his face that could almost be beatific if this wasn't Sherlock Holmes they were talking about.

Now John was thoroughly confused. And too tired for this kind of cryptic nonsense. He watched as Sherlock put the casserole down on the kitchen counter, and as he turned around John thought he detected a change in his friend's body language. Less sure, perhaps; more hesitant. John ran through those lists again and – yes, there it was.

"Are you…do you want to ask Molly to marry you?"

He saw Sherlock swallow, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. His eyes flicked up at John before fixing somewhere on the kitchen counter. John suddenly felt an involuntary flood of warmth spread across his own chest as he realised that he was right, and how much this clearly meant to Sherlock.

"I should have asked her long ago," he said, quietly. He placed both hands on the back of John's chair.

"I've never told anyone this before – not even Molly – but I used to think about it when I was gone, when I was supposed to be dead. I tried not to, but I used to think about her a lot. Wondered whether I could ever have that kind of life, whether she would want to do that with me. Then I would tell myself it was sentimental nonsense and I was only thinking that way because I was…alone. And because Molly was one of the few people who knew I was out there. I told myself that I would know – when I came back, when I saw her again, I would know for sure…"

"…but then you came back and found she was engaged."

Sherlock nodded, his lips tight.

"I made myself dismiss it out of hand," he continued. "Sometimes it's easier when a choice is made for you. By the time Tom was out of the picture I had done a pretty good job convincing myself that I had been right about sentiment all along. And a pretty good job of making myself an unappealing prospect for Molly, too."

It was hard to forget that period after his own wedding, John reflected; the developing situation with Magnussen, the revelations about Mary, Sherlock's descent into drugs. Molly sidelined more and more, Sherlock pushing her away.

But somehow, here they were. No bookmaker in the country would have offered odds on this current situation.

"Things are a little different now, mate," he offered. "I think your chances of a positive response are pretty decent."

Sherlock nodded again.

"I know, John. But my timing has not been good. I wanted to ask her when she told me about the baby, but I didn't want her to think that was the _only_ reason I was asking. And I've nearly asked her on about sixty or seventy other occasions since then, but it never seemed quite right; it never seemed as though I would be doing it – _her_ – justice. And I didn't want to put more pressure on her –god knows my parents are overbearing enough about the baby, without getting them aerated about a wedding, too."

John couldn't help but laugh a little at this. He was fairly certain that Molly would marry Sherlock in her lunchbreak while wearing her lab coat, or in her pyjamas with no make-up – but the question did have to be asked in the first place.

"Just ask her, Sherlock," he said, shrugging. "I know you might think you want the perfect occasion, but look what happened to me. I went through hell to get that restaurant reservation and paid a small fortune on a bottle of champagne, only to have my proposal interrupted by a lunatic I thought had died two years earlier."

Sherlock looked at him quizzically, almost as though he'd forgotten the whole episode.

"Just ask her?" he said. "That's your advice, John?"

"Mm-hm."

"Seems very simplistic."

John rolled his eyes – honestly, why did he bother? He was bloody starving now, and wondered whether Sherlock thought the casserole was going to spontaneously heat up and neatly serve itself onto two plates.

"Simplicity is underrated, Sherlock. I realised that about five minutes after I met you."

That raised a short bark of laughter.

"Very droll, John," Sherlock replied, reaching into the top cupboard for glasses. "And don't worry, you don't actually have a personal hygiene issue. Well, unless you count the bacteria growing inside your cycling shorts."

John hit the button on the microwave and leaned back against the counter, his arms crossed.

"Ordinarily, I'd have to punch you in the arm for that," he replied. "But I have a feeling something a lot more painful is coming along."

"Oh?"

"There's an NCT class marked on your kitchen calendar for next weekend."

He watched Sherlock's eyes narrow as he clearly tried to recover any useful knowledge from his internal databanks.

"What's an NCT class?" he asked, carefully, cagily.

John felt his face break into a grin as he began to picture Sherlock exactly where he had been two years ago, sitting in a circle on the floor of a church hall with other first-time parents. Being expected to tell strangers about himself. Being asked to share his hopes and fears for parenthood.

He was barely able to suppress a gleeful tone as he clapped Sherlock on the shoulder.

"You're going to love it, mate," he said.

He really, really wasn't – and John couldn't wait to hear all about it.


	3. Chapter 3

Molly Hooper woke up with an ache down the left-hand side of her body, something that now happened more or less every day. She was way past the stage where she could still comfortably sleep on her back (front had been out of the question long ago), and she'd read somewhere that sleeping on your left side was safest for the baby. Probably something Sherlock had related to her from his endless stores of pregnancy-related information.

She manoeuvred the long, padded pillow from between her legs, and chucked it onto the floor beside the bed. It helped a little, but when you're the size of a whale there's only so much that can be done. She missed being able to fall asleep on Sherlock's chest, but there was simply no way she could actually reach him, now that there was a yoga-ball sized bump between them. When he spooned her from behind, his arm barely made it around her middle – something that he found endlessly amusing. And apparently attractive, if the nuzzling and neck-kisses were anything to go by. She put that last bit down to male ego – "look what I've done to my little woman."

But despite the incredible variety of discomforts the third trimester was putting her through, Molly found it hard to be irritated for long. Yes, there had been arguments along the way – blazing rows might be more accurate – and more than once she had reminded Sherlock that this was all _his_ idea, but she gladly acknowledged that she was now happier than she had ever been.

And now her bladder was demanding to be heard. For about the seventh time since she got into bed the previous evening.

Was Sherlock around? He'd come to bed late as he sometimes did – she remembered him kissing her gently as he lowered himself onto the mattress – but now she couldn't hear him. No violin, no footsteps pacing the living room. (Of course, now that his lab had been moved upstairs, there would be no more tinkering in the kitchen.)

Groaning audibly and spontaneously, Molly hauled herself around until she was sitting on the side of the bed, and gave herself a second to brace herself for actually standing up. Once she was up, it was always much easier, particularly because the baby would be putting less pressure on her lungs. God, she couldn't wait until this baby was properly engaged and she could breathe again – well, at least that's what she'd been told (Sherlock again).

When she padded through to the bathroom, she saw a handwritten note attached to the door with a small letter opener (she'd have to talk to him about knives when their baby arrived). Her bladder wouldn't wait, so she took the letter into the bathroom and read it once she had washed her hands:

'Good morning, Molly Hooper,

My presence has been requested at a crime scene (did you ask Lestrade to keep me 'busy'?). I have arranged for a taxi to collect you at 11.30 to bring you to a location near London Bridge. We'll eat first, don't worry.

You are an extraordinary woman of prodigious beauty.

SH x

PS. I fed the cat. He looked ready to murder me for a tin of tuna'

Molly laughed at the note. Toby had actually been living at 221B for longer than she had (she moved him in while she was still in the process of renting her house, hoping to get him settled), but it hadn't particularly helped him to bond with Sherlock. They had reached an uneasy truce, it seemed, whereby Toby wouldn't leap on Sherlock at unexpected moments (while deep in his Mind Palace, for instance), as long as Sherlock was unstinting with the cat treats and didn't manually throw him off his chair. On reflection, Toby definitely had the upper hand.

She checked the time – it was just after nine. Molly was fully aware that she needed to savour and appreciate these last few weeks, while (fairly) uninterrupted sleep was still a possibility. Rosie was a good sleeper and always had been, but that, Molly knew, was not the norm. She wondered, rather fearfully, whether Sherlock's own erratic and unusual sleeping habits were innate or self-imposed. Was she about to give birth to a baby who could exist on just three hours' sleep? At least Sherlock regularly slept in his bed now - although he had pointed out that these days there was a distinct incentive waiting there for him.

The living room was lovely and warm, Sherlock having started a small fire in the hearth before he went out. Toby was napping contentedly in Sherlock's chair. In the rush to get everything finished and handed over to her maternity cover, Molly kept having to remind herself that it was Christmas soon – which seemed crazy. The previous Christmas Day she'd spent at work (which seemed only fair, as she had no family commitments), quietly ploughing through paperwork while listening to her Christmas playlist and worrying about whether Sherlock was still clean. She'd been worried about John and Mary's obvious marriage problems, too, but really, there was only so much she could get involved with – and Sherlock always took priority.

Twelve months down the line, and somehow she had gone from exchanging a single Christmas text with Sherlock (she still remembered his reply: 'Merry Christmas, Molly. I am in Hell. SH') to spending the whole day with him in the knowledge that their baby could arrive at any minute. That particular nugget was what Sherlock was using to try and get out of going to his parents' house again – this had been met with an impressive campaign of guilt-tripping on the part of his mother, and the compromise was that they would visit the weekend before Christmas.

Secretly, Molly was pleased that Christmas itself would be at Baker Street. She was looking forward to watching Rosie unwrap her presents, and being able to quietly curl up on her own sofa in the evening. Sherlock had made a show of annoyance when she'd told him they'd have to get a tree and decorate the flat, but he wasn't fooling anyone.

Molly ate her porridge at the kitchen table, an act that in itself seemed a minor miracle – Sherlock's lab equipment was now all upstairs waiting for the builders to finish the new ventilation system in the spare room, the last major piece of work remaining. At last, she had a proper kitchen, free of biohazards and test tube racks (though she was a tiny bit nostalgic for that organised mess, which was just so Sherlock). Molly scribbled a note on the fridge to remind herself to talk to Mrs Hudson and John about arrangements for Christmas dinner.

Despite the fact that getting up and down the stairs now counted as major aerobic exercise, she couldn't resist another look at the nursery. She took her cup of tea up with her and just sat for five minutes on the edge of the day bed, listening to the faint sound of traffic outside. She'd painted the room herself, before she was the size of a zeppelin, choosing pale blue – not because of any ideas about the baby's sex (gender and colour associations were a stupid thing anyway), but to create a feeling of open skies and outdoors in the middle of the bustling city. She'd enlisted Sherlock's help – and his height – to sponge-print clouds just below the picture rail (it was the first time she'd ever seen someone decorating in dress trousers and a designer shirt).

The next day, she'd come home to find Sherlock sitting Sphinx-like in his chair, apparently engrossed in a chemistry journal – but then she trekked upstairs to find that the 'sky' of the nursery was now alive with a line of carefully-painted bees. He really was full of surprises, and thankfully most of them these days were good ones.

Most of the items that surrounded her in the nursery were vintage, acquired from Sherlock's extensive network of contacts across London, who'd all been told to be on the lookout for quality, second-hand nursery furniture. The only thing missing was a crib, but Sherlock assured her he had it in hand – and she trusted him (besides, she reasoned, babies in Finland slept in cardboard boxes and clearly did fine off the back of it, so there was always an emergency option).

It was now close to ten o'clock, and Molly was fully aware of how long it took her to get ready these days. As she gingerly made her way back down the stairs (hard to be safe when you can't see your feet over your stomach), she thought about how the transformation of 221 Baker Street reflected the transformation of all of their lives. For her and for Sherlock it was for wholly positive reasons, but she recognized that for John it was only the next-best thing – by rights, if the world was a fair and just place, he would still be living in the basement flat with his wife and daughter. She saw it in John's face sometimes when they were all together, a bittersweet-ness, and she knew he must torture himself sometimes with the 'what ifs'. God, she had enough 'what ifs' of her own, taunting her when she had trouble sleeping, but she was lucky enough to still have the person she loved in bed beside her– and she would hold on to that with both hands.

But this – all of them being under one roof – felt like the fresh start they all needed. Whatever John had been feeling, it hadn't stopped him throwing himself into the redesign and renovation of 221C, creating the perfect haven for himself and Rosie. The garden was an unexpected revelation, too; small, but their own pocket of green space in the heart of the city, and just about big enough for two small children to let off steam. Molly knew that Sherlock appreciated having John and Rosie close, despite the fact that the two men drove each other crazy. She tended to be wiped out by about eighty-thirty these days, and would often kiss Sherlock goodnight and leave him talking with John well into the night.

She should start getting ready to go out, particularly given how long it took her at the moment. As she went to collect a fresh towel, she heard a text alert.

'It's a passable three. Anderson and Donovan send their 'best', whatever that means.

Sorry I'm not there to help with your foot attire

SH x'

Sherlock had successfully foreseen one of the bigger challenges of her morning, namely getting herself dressed. It would have to be trousers, because a dress in December meant tights, and there was no way she was getting herself into those on her own. Molly was aware that if she was at this stage in summer, it would be all cool summer dresses and slip-on shoes; instead, when Sherlock wasn't around to assist, she had to hook a sock onto a long shoe-horn and reach around her bump one-handed to pull it on, and the only viable footwear was ankle boots that she could step into. Closer now that her relationship with John was, it would feel too weird to ask another man for help with this stuff – and although Mrs Hudson would want to help, she couldn't very well ask a woman of nearly eighty to get down on the floor with a pair of socks.

How had women managed like this for so long? Molly missed Mary every single day, and found herself almost talking to her lost friend as she muddled through each day of this baffling new experience. There was an endless list of things she wished she could ask Mary. Detailed medical knowledge and the availability of Google only got her so far – she knew that Mary would have told her how it really was, made her laugh at the things that sometimes made her want to cry, would remind her that if _she_ could give birth in a car with Sherlock in 'buffering' mode beside her, then Molly would be fine. She wished she could give Mary the same honour of making her a godparent – she would have been a damn good one for any child to have on their side.

All the more reason to try as hard as she could to be the best guide and confidante that she could be to Rosie. Who knows, maybe John would meet someone else eventually, but Molly had assumed that _she_ would be the one to eventually talk to Rosie about fickle female friendships, feminism, periods, sex and generally how crap boys can be. And that _was_ an honour.

But one thing was clear at the moment – for a while at least, she would struggle to be Rosie's surrogate mother. She could now only carry her goddaughter for short periods, and now that Rosie was eighteen months old and tearing around the place, Molly could barely keep pace. And when Baby H arrived (everyone was coy not to apply a specific surname, she noticed), he or she would take up all of her time and then some. Somehow, Rosie had to still be part of the equation but – as Sherlock had pointed out when she was fretting over this very dilemma in bed the other night – they would find some way to make it work. That was the way with their strange, makeshift family.

She had only been out of the shower a few minutes, and was wrestling with her skinny maternity jeans (Mary would have shared her love of that particular oxymoron), when another text alert arrived.

'You * **are** * awake, Molly?

SH x'

She realized then that she hadn't responded to the other ones.

'Sorry, sorry, sorry! Slow to get going today. Are you going to tell me what we're doing?

M x'

Floral maternity top and cream cardigan located and thrown on as a reply came through.

'Nope. Surprise. You like surprises.

SH x'

She had to laugh to herself at that as she sifted through her drawer for some matching socks. She dashed off a quick reply.

'This baby was a surprise. Remember how I reacted to that?

M x'

A few moments passed, and she imagined – with amusement - Sherlock, wherever he was, trying to figure out what kind of mood she was in and how best he should respond. In the time it took her to do the thing with the shoe-horn and the socks (she was getting pretty adept at this), he had obviously arrived at something.

'Much like the process of making said baby, this will also be fun. Admittedly not as much, but in our present circumstances we have to adjust expectations.

SH x'

Molly felt mildly reassured, and realised too that he was making an oblique reference to the state of their sex life at the moment. Second semester sex had been both amazing and frequent to the point where she wondered what her demanding hormones were trying to do to her (and to Sherlock, who for a while went around in a haze of contented exhaustion – to the point where even John had commented on it). But now their bedroom encounters veered between frustrating and unintentionally hilarious. Molly's interest hadn't waned, but the body couldn't always manage what the brain desired, and the logistics were becoming increasingly tricky – which more often than not resulted in laughter. Sherlock did his best not to look too intimidated by the magnitude of the bump, but he was starting to approach sex like a problem to be solved (the perplexed expressions were priceless) - and Molly knew he was slightly freaked out when their child seemed to become more active during their own 'activities'.

She padded through to the hallway, supporting herself on the doorframe as she lowered her feet one by one into her boots. Thank God her ankles and feet hadn't expanded as much as she'd been warned.

'Expectations adjusted. See you soon

Mx'

She reached for the expensive maternity pea coat she had been forced to buy, the curse of late pregnancy coinciding with the coldest time of the year – she would get two months' use out of this coat if she was lucky (and at this point she wasn't thinking beyond one pregnancy).

'Cab on its way. Chap called Kamal.

SH x'

He was being cautious, she knew, intimating that she should check the driver's badge before she got in the taxi. It was hard to believe that anyone would target her, but Molly understood that now she was carrying Sherlock Holmes' baby, she had probably moved up to the big leagues in the eyes of his adversaries. She suspected that Mycroft had eyes on her almost everywhere she went, and it was easier to just accept that rather than fight it – as long as she couldn't see them, she could get on with her life.

Molly wound her pink and black scarf around her neck and pulled on a bobble hat just as she heard the honk of a car horn outside. Time to find out what on earth Sherlock Holmes had in store for her this time.


	4. Chapter 4

The taxi deposited her outside a small, fairly nondescript-looking café in the shadow of The Shard, which she probably would have overlooked had she been passing on her own. And if Sherlock hadn't immediately stepped out onto the pavement to open the car door for her. Funny, even all these months later - and despite the domestic turn their lives had taken - Molly still felt a jolt of desire and delight when she was reunited with him like this. Seven years of unrequited love, she reminded herself – old habits die hard.

Once she was on the pavement and the cab fare paid, Sherlock moved in to give her a quick kiss in greeting. These public demonstrations of affection, however brief, still took Molly by surprise and stirred strange feelings of pride that _she_ was the one to inspire them.

"You're wearing shoes, I see," he said, smiling, as he laced his fingers with her gloved ones and led her towards the café.

"My big achievement for the day," Molly replied. "So don't expect much this afternoon. How was the case?"

By this time they were inside. As usual for Sherlock, this place was very much off the tourist trail, but it was still bustling – small tables with waiting staff twisting through the narrow gaps, chatter from the staff in the semi-open kitchen. From the signage and the wonderful smells emanating from the kitchen, Molly recognised it as Korean.

"Tedious," Sherlock replied, moving her chair out for her. His Belstaff was already draped over the chair opposite. "Only worth turning up for the sight of Anderson tripping over his kit box and nearly falling down a flight of stairs."

"Is he okay?"

"That really depends on your definition of okay. He is physically intact."

Molly rolled her eyes. She knew that Sherlock's indifference to the wellbeing of others only ran so deep – and Anderson only continued to annoy him because the man claimed to have deduced Sherlock's feelings for Molly before Sherlock even knew himself. He deduced the deducer, so to speak.

"Dare I ask how you came across this place?" Molly asked, with a nod to their surroundings.

"I was sleeping rough under the bridge for a case five years ago," he replied. "Sang-hoon gave me a bag of leftovers without me even asking. Of course, that was after one of his kitchen porters nearly broke my arm because he thought I was stealing."

Although Molly had read John's blog in secret for many years, this was yet another detail that wasn't familiar. It was probably best to accept that she knew about the big stuff now, and the rest would undoubtedly come out in dribs and drabs.

"I've ordered," Sherlock added. "I hope you don't mind? I thought you'd be hungry and I asked Sang-hoon for his recommendations."

In the past, it would have irritated Molly if a man ordered for her, and if she ever thought Sherlock was doing it to assert his dominance she would have put him in his place – but she trusted his motivations, and besides, he was right about her hunger levels.

"So..." Molly began, as a young waiter brought a jug of water and some glasses to the table. "Are you going to tell me now?"

"Hm?"

"What we're doing today? "

"Ah, not just today, Molly - for the rest of this week and beyond!"

Suddenly, he had that look on his face, the one usually reserved for a seemingly unsolvable murder or a set of particularly unusual lab results - that slightly perverse boyish glee that drew her to him all those years ago, the same glee that had the tendency to appall everyone else. Molly acknowledged that she must have a bit of that in her, too, although the difference was she had the tact Sherlock lacked and the social manners he couldn't care less about.

"The week, Sherlock?" Molly said, as Sherlock poured them both some water. "Is this plan going to involve me sitting on the sofa with the six novels I bought to read on maternity leave?"

"It's much better than that," Sherlock replied, his face breaking into the kind of disarming and incredibly handsome smile that still made her stomach do stupid things. "I've got an itinerary."

An itinerary. That sounded ominous.

"Okay…"

"Remember our visit to Bart's Museum?"

Of course she did. Technically, she supposed, it was their first date – although by that time she was already several weeks pregnant, so not a first date by most people's standards. Bart's Pathology Museum was generally only open by special arrangement, but Sherlock had somehow talked the head archivist into allowing them a private visit. He had turned up at the lab one lunchtime bearing sandwiches and crisps from the canteen and they had walked over to the museum together. Molly had been there before, of course, both as a medical student and later on when she took some taxidermy classes there (she still thought she'd like to produce a friend for Milo the skateboarding mouse someday). But everything was different when seen through the eyes of Sherlock Holmes, and she'd been happy to let him be her enthusiastic guide, pointing out the curiosities that piqued his interest. At some stage when he was talking animatedly about the skull of John Bellingham, she had backed him up against a cabinet – out of sight of the archivist - and kissed him thoroughly. Museum exhibits were pretty much forgotten at that point.

"Well," Sherlock continued. "I recall you mentioning one or two other museums you had yet to visit, so I thought this might be the perfect time. I thought we'd start with The Old Operating Theatre and Herb Garret as it's conveniently close by, then tomorrow we could go to the Hunterian Museum and have lunch at Angelo's. Wednesday would be a good day for the Royal London Hospital Museum – there's a very comprehensive archive from the original Whitechapel Murders – and I thought Thursday could have a slightly different focus; perhaps the Grant Museum of Zoology in the morning, and then I've always liked the idea of the Magic Circle Museum near Euston, even though Mycroft was the world's worst amateur magician in his youth and almost put me off for life."

He was speaking a mile a minute now and Molly was struggling to keep up, all the same feeling a smile spread across her face as she watched him hitting his stride – if there wasn't both a table and a huge baby-sized protuberance between them, she would have snogged him right there.

"Friday's going to be good," he continued. "The Dental Museum and the Anaesthesia Heritage Centre, both of which are in Marylebone, and in very close proximity to the finest chips in the whole of London."

Without knowing why, Molly felt her heart hitch in her chest – and then her memory caught up with her.

"The owner gives you extra portions," she said, smiling.

Sherlock looked at her quizzically, surprised. He didn't remember.

"How-?"

"You told me," Molly replied, recollections from that day now flooding back to her. "That day you asked me to solve crimes with you. You suggested we went for chips. But we, ah, we didn't."

She saw a more serious expression cross his face, and she suspected they were now mulling over the same thoughts, the same memories. The exchanged looks on that day, the shared enjoyment of each other's company and the cases they were investigating…the ring on her finger, the kiss on her cheek.

"No, we didn't," Sherlock replied quietly.

"I…I wish we had," she said. "I…when I thought about it later, I wondered whether maybe it…maybe you were…"

"Asking you out?" Sherlock finished.

"Um, yeah."

This shouldn't be awkward considering what they now were to each other, but all the same…

"I said it without thinking," Sherlock replied. "I had enjoyed our time together and simply wanted both to prolong it and to introduce you to some very good chips. It was only once you questioned my…my motives…that I realised it wasn't entirely appropriate. In the circumstances."

Molly nodded. The Sherlock Holmes who humiliated her that Christmas and thought nothing of sabotaging any attempts she made at a relationship wouldn't have let a little thing like an engagement spoil his fun – but the man who returned from two years of enforced exile did. Right there in the hallway of that house, the tingle of Sherlock's tender kiss still on her cheek, Molly had known that she and Tom were doomed.

She reached across the table and covered Sherlock's large hand with her smaller one.

"Well, I think those extra portions might come in handy now," she smiled, rubbing her belly with her other hand. "If the owner still remembers you, that is."

"Oh, he remembers me," Sherlock said. "That was a hell of a set of shelves I helped him to put up."

Molly looked at him through narrowed eyes.

"I always wondered whether that was a euphemism."

"I couldn't possibly divulge," Sherlock replied, eyes briefly drifting to the ceiling.

At that moment, a text alert pinged to his phone and Molly waited while he checked it.

"Ah, perfect timing!" he said, his eyes lighting up. "Lestrade!"

"Another case?" Molly asked.

"Nope. He's called in a favour for me. Well, more for you, really. I asked him about the Black Museum."

"At Scotland Yard?" Molly asked, surprised. "I thought it was closed these days. I mean, I remember there was an exhibition from there at The Museum of London a little while ago, but I thought it was off-limits these days."

"Apparently, Greg's boss is a fan of my work," Sherlock replied, raising an eyebrow and not even trying to hide the smugness on his face.

He held his phone out so that Molly could read the text message.

'Cleared it with Douglas. You've got an hour next Monday. Weird place for a date, Sherlock, even for you and Molls. You owe me, mate.

Greg'

Molly was fairly sure that by Monday she would be suffering from museum fatigue, but Sherlock seemed so happy – and proud of himself – that she wasn't going to rain on his parade. Just then, her own phone chirped with a text.

'Tried to persuade His Majesty that the London Eye would be more romantic. Sorry Molls. Make him buy you a decent dinner. Hope the little one is behaving.

Greg'

She laughed lightly and showed the phone to Sherlock, who sighed, conveying that he thought that Greg Lestrade once again knew nothing. Molly remembered then that the day she and Sherlock visited Bart's Pathology Museum was also the day that Greg found out about them – he had been waiting in the morgue for Molly to get back, and had instead been greeted by the sight of her and Sherlock tumbling through the swing doors, attached by the lips. Greg's wide-eyed, gob-smacked reaction had been the best by far – especially when it was followed by a delighted bear-hug for them both and an amusing (for her) punch on the arm for Sherlock.

"So, what do you think?" Sherlock asked. "We don't have to do any of it, if you don't want to."

"It sounds fun," she replied, mostly truthfully. "Thank you, Sherlock."

"Not too much?" he queried. "John tells me I can be a bit what he calls 'full-on' sometimes."

Molly didn't think it was the moment to remind him that his 'full-on' tendencies were partly to blame for he being pregnant within weeks of his return from Sherrinford.

"It's lovely, and I appreciate it," she replied, finding his ankle with the toe of her boot. "Although with all of that walking, you're going to be busy with foot-rubbing duties."

"It will be my honour."

A waiter approached and presented them with steaming rice bowls and side dishes, the scent of which immediately made Molly ravenously hungry. Sherlock thanked the young waiter (in his native language, Molly noted).

"No fried egg or prawns in yours, I'm afraid," Sherlock said, somewhat apologetically. A perfect fried egg sat atop his rice bowl, drizzled with chili oil.

"So all the best bits, you mean," she replied, rolling her eyes and smiling.

"In five weeks' time, Molly, I will prepare you a banquet of ripe cheese, shellfish, soft-boiled eggs, and paté," Sherlock smiled. "You can feast to your heart's content."

She felt herself pouting slightly.

"Knowing my luck, it will be more like seven weeks," she said. "This baby seems pretty comfortable where it is, stealing my calories and giving me heartburn."

Sherlock was looking at her in that way that had become all the more frequent the more visibly pregnant she became. Molly still couldn't decide exactly what sentiment it was conveying – some kind of combination of gratitude mixed with pride, thankfulness, awe, and perhaps a little pinch-yourself amazement? Whatever it was, she couldn't help but blush a little under his gaze.

Just then, an older man appeared by their table with a woman of around Molly's age. Sherlock put down his chopsticks, quickly wiped his mouth with a napkin and got to his feet.

"Ah, Sang-hoon!" he said, shaking the man's hand. "A superlative meal, as always!"

"Mr Sherlock! Sit, please sit!"

The man, whose English wasn't good, now addressed Molly.

"It's good?" he asked.

She nodded enthusiastically, trying to clear a mouthful of rice and vegetables, and the man beamed in response.

"This is Molly," Sherlock said, as he took his seat.

Some words were then exchanged in Korean, and the woman spoke up.

"My father says your wife is very beautiful, Mr Holmes."

Molly opened her mouth to say something, although she didn't know quite what. Sherlock beat her to it, though.

"Tell your father that I agree," he said.

That wasn't what Molly expected.

More conversation between father and daughter followed.

"He says she's – how do you say? – out of your league."

At that, Sherlock barked with laugher.

"Yes, I know that, too," he said. "I'm a very fortunate man. Don't worry – plenty of people see fit to remind me at regular intervals."

At that point, the restaurant proprietor made a gesture as though he was miming a globe.

"Big boy!" Sang-hoon said, grinning to Molly and pointing at her stomach. "Very big boy!"

Molly felt her cheeks flush, and she shot a questioning look at Sherlock, who was smiling serenely.

"Um, yes," Molly answered. She was about to say thank you, but she wasn't sure what she'd be thanking him for (for noticing that she was the size of a house?) "Sherlock does think we're having a boy. We don't actually know for sure."

More words exchanged in Korean.

"My father says that you must bring your son – your child – here when it arrives. He also says there is nothing to pay for this meal – it is our gift and blessing."

This time Molly did say thank you, and Sherlock briefly stood again to shake Sang-hoon's hand again and clap him on the shoulder. She was wondering just how many free meals the two of them were likely to score over the next few weeks – knowing Sherlock, he might have planned the week's activities around who he knew in the restaurant industry.

When they had gone and eating had resumed, Molly knew she had to broach something with Sherlock. It had been there from the outset, but the longer it went on, the more the thought had worried away at her.

"Sherlock…you're not going to be, um, disappointed if the baby turns out to be a girl?"

His eyes flicked up from his food and he blinked at her. Then a lopsided smile began to appear.

"Of course not, Molly! What would make you think that?"

Was he completely dense?

"Er, because you keep insisting that the baby is a boy, despite the lack of scientific evidence to back it up." she reminded him. "Sometimes it seems like…I don't know…you think that if she wish hard enough it will happen."

Sherlock suddenly looked concerned, put down his chopsticks.

"That's not it at all, Molly," he said, his eyes now earnestly fixed on hers. "I don't have a preference, of course I don't. Why wouldn't I want a brilliant, beautiful little version of you running around Baker Street? It would be wonderful. But we can aim for that next time. This one's a boy."

"There's no way that-" – she stopped, suddenly feeling as though she'd been sideswiped. "Um…did you just say 'next time'?"

Sherlock, having resumed eating, looked up and nodded before reaching for his glass of water.

"Mm-hm."

"There's going to be a 'next time'?" she asked, this time slowly and pointedly.

"I'd like to think so," he said. "I mean, I don't exactly have a great touchpoint for the value of siblings, but I'm hopeful that your superior genetic contribution will go some way to diluting the Holmes Effect."

Molly felt a warmth spread across her chest. She'd never thought this far ahead, never allowed herself to because she had no idea where Sherlock saw this going. She probably should have just asked.

"Can I get this one out first, please?" she laughed.

Sherlock grinned.

"Probably a good idea. We shouldn't wait too long, though."

Molly snorted.

"Why? Because I'm ancient in motherhood terms?"

It was such a lovely feeling to have the midwife refer to her state of expectancy as a 'geriatric pregnancy'.

"I was thinking more so that they can share a bedroom for a while," Sherlock replied. "Although I concede that we may eventually outgrow 221B. With any luck."

Another bombshell. That one would have to wait for another day, another year perhaps.

She was going to have to stop eating soon, or else she would just become too sleepy to leave her seat, let alone walk to – and then around – a museum. It was at that moment that something struck her.

"Thursday's plans are going to have to go on hold," Molly said, wiping her fingers. "I told John we'd look after Rosie. I mean, that I would."

Sherlock cocked his head.

"She wouldn't like the Museum of Zoology?"

Molly had to check whether this was a genuine question, which apparently it was. She smiled, offering him a raised eyebrow.

"I think she'd prefer the actual zoo."

"What, in December?"

"Okay, maybe not the zoo. But something more…child-friendly."

She saw Sherlock almost literally shudder. She and John had already got plenty of mileage out of the thought of Sherlock enduring such rites of passage as soft play centres, petting zoos and theme parks. All while wearing his usual suit and Belstaff.

"We'll think of something," she assured him. "Rosie's usually just happy with a trip to the shops and a café. But maybe we can come up with somewhere else. I can ask John for ideas."

Sherlock hummed his tacit agreement.

"I'll reschedule Thursday's itinerary for next week. Or what about Saturday?"

Molly shook her head, pushing her plate slightly further away from her so that she could no longer be tempted to pick (although she now carried sachets of Gaviscon everywhere with her). She knew she was about to introduce a potentially tricky topic.

"I'm, um, I've got that NCT class all weekend," she said, aware that she was trying to avoid meeting Sherlock's eye. "Over in Islington. You, um, you don't have to come."

Sherlock frowned at her.

"Is that usual?"

Molly felt herself growing a little flustered and inwardly cursed herself. It was the old Molly trying to creep back in.

"It's probably not _unusual,_ " she reasoned. "I mean, there must be plenty of men who are working or otherwise can't make it, and lots of women who are, you know, on their own for other reasons."

She chanced a glance up at him. He was still looking perplexed.

"Well, I am neither working, nor otherwise engaged, nor feckless or indifferent towards my child or his mother, so therefore I will be in attendance," he said. "Although I'm not sure what this class will tell us about childbirth that either of us don't already know."

Molly was torn between relief that she wouldn't be going to the class alone (and what that said about Sherlock's degree of commitment to her), and the fact that he was entirely missing the point. It seemed very likely that John Watson had got there first and filled Sherlock's head with his own unhelpful pearls of wisdom about childbirth classes.

"I have a medical degree and you've binge-read a lot of books," she countered.

"You've delivered babies."

"Yeah, about fifteen years ago, and I was never that confident with it even then. Decided I was better with patients at the other end of their lives. Besides, delivering a baby and having a baby are not the same thing, Sherlock."

"I got the general idea when Rosie was born," he replied, sounding a little more defensive now. "The experience was very…instructional."

Molly snorted.

"John said you went into buffering mode."

"Into what?"

"Buffering. Like you were finding it hard to process."

"Git," Sherlock huffed. "I was doing my best to be a comfort to and calming influence on his wife while he was dithering about for an eternity trying to find somewhere to pull over. I'd like to see him do better."

"Um, well I actually hope he doesn't get the chance," Molly said, biting her lip to keep a traitorous smile at bay. "John's a friend, but I can't imagine Mary enjoyed having _you_ quite so close to, um, the action."

"Perhaps not, but she nearly broke my bloody fingers," Sherlock said. "I was genuinely concerned that my violin-playing days might be over."

Molly smiled at him, inwardly acknowledging that Sherlock's beautiful, violinist's fingers would have proven a loss to more than just the musical world. Pregnancy hormones were doing nothing to diminish her feelings of outright lust for the man sitting opposite her.

"It won't just be about the birth," she continued, distracting herself. "There'll be stuff about relaxation, and practical things about looking after a newborn. Also, I was hoping I might, you know, might people."

Sherlock, of course, looked baffled by this suggestion.

"What people?"

"I don't know. People. Other women like me." 

"There are no other women like you, Molly, I assure you."

She smiled. Other men might say that with a hint of irony, but not Sherlock – to him, it seemed to be simply a statement of irrefutable fact.

Molly took his hand across the table again, just as the waiter returned to clear their plates.

"Sherlock, I'm going to be off work for at least nine months, possibly a year," she said. "You won't always be around, you'll be working, and that's fine, that's normal, but I might, you know, appreciate some company. Someone to meet up with, go for coffees with, talk about baby stuff with."

Molly could see that Sherlock looked sceptical, possibly unsure as to why anyone would knowingly reach out to complete strangers, with whom the only thing you may have in common is the imminent/recent arrival of a child. It wasn't really her idea of a picnic either, but she wasn't exactly drowning in female friends of her own age or the same stage of life, and she worried that new motherhood – especially when the game was back on for Sherlock – could be very lonely.

"Understood," he nodded.

Yeah right, she thought; but at least he's trying.

Sherlock slid some bills out of his wallet and onto the table, which were instantly shooed back into his wallet by Sang-hoon, who seemed to appear out of nowhere. Thanks were exchanged, with their host once again commenting almost disbelievingly on the size of Molly's bump when she hitched herself up from her seat (at least he hadn't seen fit to touch her stomach – it was surprising how many people apparently thought a pregnant woman was public property).

Once out on the street, Sherlock was on his phone seeking out walking directions while Molly sorted out her hat and scarf again.

"Hm," Sherlock muttered. "There's an exhibition at the Operating Theatre about male midwives in the eighteenth century."

Molly rolled her eyes.

"Am I going to have to look at a lot of medieval-looking birthing instruments this afternoon, Sherlock? Because if so, Madame Tussaud's is sounding like a much better option."

Sherlock chuckled, pocketing his phone and offering his arm. Molly took it, leaning into him and affectionately squeezing the bicep beneath her fingers. This was it, it seemed – this was really it. They were now firmly on a countdown, and these occasions – just the two of them – would end abruptly in a matter of weeks. Sometimes it struck Molly that unlike most normal couples, they hadn't had a lot of this, that her pregnancy had never not been part of the fabric of their relationship. But it was what it was. And instead of shopping for baby clothes, they were about the visit a museum about Europe's oldest surviving operating theatre, so who in their right mind would have called them a normal couple?


	5. Chapter 5

They had hired a car to drive down to West Sussex, and Sherlock started to get that familiar sinking feeling once they passed Dorking and were really on the open road. John liked to joke – great wit that he was – that Sherlock started to experience heart palpitations and nervous sweats if he got as far as the Hammersmith flyover, but the truth was he liked the countryside as much as the next person. Well, it depended a bit who the next person was, but he honestly had no problem with it – bit dull after a while if you weren't a fan of sheep, wi-fi signal fairly chronic in places – but he could see the appeal of a slower pace, fewer human beings, at least for a while. He'd grown up with that, for god's sake.

And there was the problem. Because now they were approaching the ancestral seat of the Holmes family, and the physical responses were Pavlovian, apparently impossible to shrug off. Of course, Christmas was an added factor, too, and there hadn't been a happy one of those for…well, not since he'd hit adulthood anyway.

He'd done his research before hiring a car, insisting on something that rated particularly well for occupant safety. Molly had teased him about this a little, but stopped when she recognised how important it was to him. Sometimes Sherlock worried that he was going to go crazy with the need to protect them both, but he also knew that feeling would never fully go away, so he was going to have to figure out a way to manage it.

Although she complained that she couldn't get comfortable in the car (really, she found it hard to get comfortable anywhere these days), Molly was now asleep. Sherlock glanced across at her, dozing with her neck against the taut seatbelt and her right hand resting on her belly. How had this happened? A woman like Molly, somehow loving someone like _him_ , agreeing to start a family with him. After all that he'd put her through, despite the man he used to be. His second chance was nothing short of miraculous.

He resisted the urge to turn on the radio, which he knew might go some way to distracting him from his anxieties, but radio was mostly inane and if he didn't think these things through before he arrived at his parents' house, they would continue to dog him – and then he'd only worry Molly and annoy his mother. Things were different now, weren't they? No need to revert to old ways of thinking, feeling. Still, it was the first time he had brought Molly to his parents' home – his old home – and the first time he would be staying overnight there since just before the business with Magnussen.

Sherlock listened to the hum of the road and the soft breathing of his pathologist. His _pathologist._ He'd been carrying the ring around with him for months, and he didn't know what was wrong with him. John was probably right – he should just ask her. She wouldn't say no…would she? But then he reminded himself once again that Molly was conned into this pregnancy by a crazy man who thought it would be the best way to make her happy (although Sherlock knew she would refute both the conning part and possibly the crazy man part, too). It hadn't been the most stable start to a romantic relationship. Maybe he should give her the opportunity to see how he panned out as a father first, because god knows he had enough worries about that himself. And then there was the lingering, gnawing feeling that he just wasn't worthy. Molly didn't seem to agree, but then she was kindness and loveliness itself and-

"Ugh, I fell asleep."

Sherlock turned to see Molly crinkling her nose, screwing her eyes shut before opening them again and blinking. If there was one thing that could drag him out of his self-pitying brooding…

"You didn't miss much," he replied, unable to prevent the smile from creeping across his face. "Except to say that I took the turn-off for Gatwick while you were sleeping, and am prepared to take you anywhere in the world right now, hang the expense."

An expression of horror flickered across Molly's face before she caught on. Sherlock felt a smile quirk at the corners of his mouth; It was fun while it lasted.

"I wouldn't be allowed on a plane, so you'd have to go on your own," she pointed out.

"Is that…an option?" he countered. "I have a lot of passports to choose from."

"I'll have to have Mycroft revoke them."

She smiled and reached across to hold his arm for a moment while he was driving. Steadying him as she always did.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" she asked.

Sherlock shrugged. Molly, he knew, appreciated total honesty, even when he might want to avoid it to protect her.

"Just…memories," he replied, hoping she would fill in the gaps.

She was quiet for a moment.

"I know," she said eventually. "But maybe this weekend will be an opportunity to make some new ones. Better ones."

"In that case, better steer clear of the board games," Sherlock said. "Mycroft flounces like a toddler when he loses, and my mother takes absolutely no prisoners when it comes to Monopoly - we once had a game last for three days because she wouldn't let anyone concede, insisted on bankrupting all of us one by one."

They were clearly a ridiculous family, and needed someone like Molly to make them less so.

"Sounds like my kind of Christmas," Molly giggled. "Your mum would go easy on me, though. It's not a good idea to go upsetting the mother of your grandchild just weeks before the birth."

Sherlock found himself smiling too, though he had not particularly intended his initial comment to be humorous. It didn't take Nostradamus to predict that his mother would adore Molly; she seemed to be constantly marvelling at how she hadn't been 'snapped up' much sooner, and on occasion seemed almost angry at him for making Molly wait so long. _Yes, Mummy, point taken; I'm angry enough about that myself sometimes._

Not for the first time, Sherlock found himself thinking that 'daughter-in-law' would be linguistically less clumsy and altogether more satisfying than 'mother of your grandchild'. But if Molly was bothered by the difference, she did a good job of hiding it.

The winter evening had already set in, and they approached the village in darkness. Sherlock recalled arriving here the previous year with John and Mary; _posh boy_ , Mary had said teasingly as they wound their way up to his parents' house, which overlooked the main village. Hardly as though _that_ was a secret.

"This is it?" Molly said, as the wheels of the car crunched softly over the gravel.

Sherlock gave a hum of confirmation.

"It's very pretty," Molly continued. "And…imposing."

"Really?"

"I grew up in a semi near Northampton, Sherlock. This is practically a manor house in comparison."

He smiled. Perhaps one day – when enough time had passed - he'd take her to see the ruins of Musgrave, show her where he really came from. Even he could see how imposing a residence that must have seemed. It would have been nice if someone could have done something with it, even if that something had been just to flatten it and let nature reclaim its footprint.

Several rooms were lit within the house, and as he switched off the car engine, Sherlock saw the security light at the front door snap on. His mother had the hearing of a bat.

"It's not too late to change our minds," Sherlock said in a quick whisper. "We could just keep driving to the coast."

"Sherlock! Molly!"

 _Now_ it was too late.

His mother was bustling down the path, his father following behind her at a more sedate pace. Just as he was about to undo his seatbelt and open the door, Sherlock felt Molly's hand slide over the top of his and squeeze it gently. He quickly leaned across the centre console and pressed his lips to hers, feeling her softly return his kiss. Fortified, he climbed out of the car, offering his mother a smile that he hoped didn't look too much like a grimace. He went around to the passenger side to help Molly out, knowing that the countryside was full of a million, unhelpful trip-hazards.

No sooner had Molly planted both feet safely on the ground than she had been engulfed in one of his mother's suffocating hugs.

"Molly, sweetheart!"

Wanda Holmes released his pathologist and held her at arm's length.

"I can barely reach you these days. Look at you!" his mother exclaimed. "Just look at her, Timothy! You look so beautiful, sweetheart."

Although he couldn't see for certain in the darkness, Sherlock suspected that Molly was blushing, but as usual she coped admirably with his mother's _mother-ness_.

"I'm quite looking forward to being able to see my feet again," she replied. "I've been having to get Sherlock to paint my toenails."

Sherlock felt his blood freeze as his mother turned to look at him, her eyebrows practically leaping off her face.

"Once!" he said, feeling his own cheeks start to colour. "I did it once!"

He was not going to give his mother the satisfaction of knowing how much he had enjoyed the experience.

But what happened next surprised him. His mother moved past Molly and came towards him, taking his face in her hands and pulling him down to her eye level.

"My darling boy," she said, her voice little more than a whisper. He couldn't remember his mother ever sounding like that. Her hands moved from his face and slipped underneath his arms, coming to rest on his shoulder-blades.

Sherlock swallowed.

"Mummy…" he said, uncertain of this unfamiliar ground.

"Are you going to let them come inside, dear?" came his father's voice, in a jovial tone. "It's just that we've left Myc all alone and I'm rather afraid he might 'do a runner', as they say."

Sherlock felt his mother pat the small of his back as they parted – a small and peculiar thing - and as he and Molly followed his parents up the path, Molly slipped her arm around his waist, leaning the weight of her small body against his. His own arm automatically went around her shoulders, reminding him once again that every terrible life decision he ever made was offset by the one that finally brought him together with this woman.

"Come in, come in," his mother said, rather redundantly considering they were heading for the front door. "I've got some supper in the Aga and your father's just brought the Monopoly set down from the study."

Sherlock turned to look at Molly, who was already beaming at him, a slightly wicked gleam in her eye. He shook his head quickly, firmly, imploring her with his eyes. Molly bit her lip for a second and, keeping her gaze fixed on him, answered his mother.

"That sounds lovely, Wanda. It's ages since I've played Monopoly."

 _Evil, evil woman._

Molly's tongue flicked out of her mouth ever so slightly, as she waggled her eyebrows at him out of sight of his mother. Sherlock didn't know why he suddenly felt incredibly turned on, but he got the feeling it was going to be a long time before he got the opportunity to act on it.

It was with a strange mix of defeatism and optimism (with a side order of frustrated desire) that he crossed his parents' threshold and walked headlong into another Holmes family gathering.


	6. Chapter 6

When they entered the house, Sherlock was hit by a wave of sensory memories; the scent of wood-smoke and home-made pastry, with hints of Brasso and the dried lavender that always hung from the beam near the kitchen door. With the house already decked out for the 'holiday season', there was also an undercurrent of pine, mixed peel (his mother must have made a Christmas cake in the past twenty-four hours) and the slight fustiness from the Christmas decorations having been temporarily liberated from the attic. The old radiators hummed and intermittently clanked, having been brought back into action again for the winter months.

Mycroft was hovering imperiously in the hallway, a tumbler clinking in his hand. Suddenly, that seemed the most brilliant idea, and Sherlock didn't even care if it wasn't his father's best stuff.

"Good evening, brother mine," Mycroft said. "Or should I say 'compliments of the season'."

"How many have you had?" replied Sherlock, not bothering to return his brother's greeting.

"Not enough," came the response, with a sigh.

"Hello, Mycroft," Molly put in. "You look well."

Sherlock noticed that his brother practically preened at the compliment before catching himself and immediately trying to hide it.

"Thank you, Molly. I have a new chef," he replied. "You look..."

Sherlock smirked as his brother's obvious discomfort.

"Pregnant?" Molly offered, barely containing her own smile.

"Indeed," Mycroft said, clearing his throat. "It...ah...it suits you."

"Well, it's not a look I plan on keeping for much longer," she smiled.

Mycroft swallowed, his eyebrows knitting together momentarily as he was clearly trying to settle on the most appropriate and least-mortifying response.

" ," was what he eventually decided on.

Sherlock snorted, at which his brother narrowed his eyes at him, indicating his intention - vow - to repay him later.

"Molly, why don't you go through to the sitting room with Timothy?" his mother said, once coats had been taken. "Make yourself comfortable and put your feet up. It's so lovely to finally have you here. Can I get you a drink?"

"Yes!" both Sherlock and Mycroft virtually shouted in unison at their mother.

She fixed them both with a look of what Sherlock deduced to be fond exasperation, their father chuckling as though he understood completely.

"You two can sort yourselves out. I'm talking to our guest - although you're family now, of course, Molly."

"A cup of tea would be lovely," Molly smiled, catching Sherlock's eye as she followed his father down the hallway and towards the sitting room. Well, the main sitting room; he imagined he wouldn't hear the end of it when Molly realised there was more than one.

"You boys can come and give me a hand," his mother continued, and to Sherlock's surprise - and clearly to his brother's surprise too - she put her arms around their waists and gave them both a squeeze. They exchanged a startled look above their mother's head.

While Wanda Holmes busied herself with making a pot of tea and checking on the food, Sherlock positioned himself beside his brother next to the window, both men with their arms folded. His mother, he noticed, was humming to herself. Something cheerful, a show-tune quite possibly. The whole thing was becoming more and more unnerving, and he sensed that Mycroft felt it too.

Sherlock was the first to crack.

"What's wrong with Mummy?" he demanded.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, keeping a watchful eyes on their mother in case she should catch them in the act. Sherlock wondered whether Molly would suddenly develop that talent - the maternal eyes in the back of her head.

"I have the horrible feeling that she might be happy," Mycroft replied, looking for all the world as though he'd just swallowed a wasp. "Maternal pride, perhaps. I hope this isn't something that we have to get used to."

Despite his words, Sherlock knew his brother felt as he did, that the changes they were witnessing in their parents - some incremental, some more profound - were all evidence of a healing process. Reconnecting with the past and looking with hope to the future.

"Everything we've ever done, little brother," Mycroft continued, sounding more ruminative than Sherlock was used to hearing. "Every accomplishment, every achievement, every accolade-"

"She wanted to see us happy," Sherlock cut in, nodding. It was the most obvious thing in the world, the biggest cliche of them all - but although his own child had yet to enter the world, he realised he already understood it.

"The triumph of the ordinary," Mycroft said, swirling his glass.

"Nothing ordinary about it, big brother," Sherlock replied, feeling the corners of his mouth quirk into a smile.

"Yes, well, you would say that, you being hopelessly _in love_ these days and all that," Mycroft said with what was clearly intended to be an ironic sigh. Sherlock could practically hear the air quotes, but there was the merest of smiles on Mycroft's face - this, he knew, was the closest his brother was going to come to telling him he was happy for him. That being in love suited him; that in winning the heart of Molly Hooper he had embarked on his greatest, most fulfilling adventure.

Sherlock nodded, their eyes meeting for a moment in mutual understanding.

"What are you two conspiring about?" their mother said suddenly. She was shifting a meat pie onto a serving dish, the final touch to a vast spread of hot and cold dishes that they would probably be eating all weekend (and the remains of which Mycroft would no doubt be taking with him back to London, despite his protests about ).

"Nothing of import, Mummy," Mycroft replied with an air of innocence. "Just Sherlock's helpless and rapid descent into domesticity."

Wanda Holmes reached across the table and swatted at Mycroft with an oven glove.

"Don't tease your brother, Myc," she said. "It's the most wonderful thing and you know it. William is going to be wonderful father-"

At this, Sherlock started to feel rather pleased with himself, feeling his currency rise as his brother's took a nosedive.

"-and I'm sure he'd be a decent husband too, if he'd only ask that lovely girl the question."

Nine minutes and twenty-eight seconds. That's how long it took his mother from the moment they pulled up in the car to get on to this thorny subject.

"Yes, well, Sherlock has approached this new chapter of his life in a rather unusual manner," Mycroft put in, unhelpfully (thank God only John knew the precise circumstances in which he and Molly had begun their relationship). "I wouldn't be surprised if he's thought about his retirement before he has thought about _matrimony_."

Again with the air quotes.

"Of course, to be in a position to retire, one has to have a proper job first," Mycroft added, his face the very picture of smarm.

Clearly their moment of brotherly understanding had passed, and they were back to safer, familiar ground. Or it used to feel safe in its familiarity - Sherlock fleetingly questioned whether it still did.

"That's enough from you, Myc," their mother replied, waving a serving spoon in her oldest child's direction. "While you've still got Alicia waiting around in limbo, you're hardly one to talk."

Sherlock saw his brother shrink about three feet before his eyes, before he visibly bolstered himself and prepared to square up to their mother.

"Lady Smallwood, _Mother_ , is hardly 'waiting around in limbo' as you so colourfully put it. She and I are perfectly content with our present arrangement, which suits both of our lifestyles, schedules and obligations - both professional and personal - very comfortably. Neither of us feel the need to formalise,deviate from or otherwise alter the status quo at this time."

"I don't doubt that Lady Smallwood can cope," their mother replied, as she took a cup and saucer down from the Welsh dresser. "It's you I worry about, Myc."

Sherlock smirked while his brother rolled his eyes, signalling his surrender.

"Is your lady love joining us this weekend, _Myc_?" Sherlock asked, affecting a tone of casual interest that he knew would infuriate his brother.

"Alas, Alicia has another engagement that prevents her from partaking in this delightful tradition. She is in Vienna, _en famille_."

"One of her sons has just announced his wife is expecting," their mother interjected. Once again, Sherlock caught his brother's eye-roll; not only that, but he had the look of a man who was desperately hoping for a sizeable hole in the floor to appear. Well, well, well - this _was_ an opportunity. And how beautifully the tables were turning.

"Well, congratulations, Mycroft!" Sherlock declared, clapping his brother on the shoulder. "A step-grandfather - you must be so thrilled. You and Dad can exchange notes!"

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, the only thing holding him back the presence of their mother six feet away.

"I wouldn't categorise myself as such, brother dear," he said. "Alicia's family affairs are her own. Unlike some people in this room, I do not feel the need to pine and anguish like an adolescent boy when Lady Smallwood is away from my side."

"All right, Mycroft, that's enough," their mother said, coming towards him with a cup of tea. "Make yourself useful and take that through to Molly. And give your father a ten minute warning for supper. Sherlock, what time will John and Rosie be joining us?"

It took Sherlock a second to realise he was being addressed, such was his preoccupation with his brother's obvious discomfit. He was also starting to realise that Mycroft could tease him all he liked about Molly - he couldn't give a damn. Why did any of that matter? He had come so close to missing out on all of this, on making a life with the woman he loved - the one who mattered most - that everything else just seemed frivolous and inconsequential.

He glanced at his watch.

"Should be here any time," he said. "Just had to collect Rosamund from the babysitter after he finished at the surgery."

His mother nodded.

"I'll leave him a warm plate just in case," she said, before turning back to Mycroft. "Off you go, darling - what good is a cup of tea if it's cold?"

Mycroft sighed.

"I get the distinct feeling that my presence is no longer required."

As soon as he had left the room, Sherlock knew his brother had been right. As usual, their mother clearly had an ulterior motive, and he had a very good idea what was coming next; he found himself frantically composing a defence of himself, which was a strange position to be taking considering that he was carrying an engagement ring around in his overnight bag.

"I have so loved getting to know Molly these past few months," she began. "Your father and I both. I can't begin to tell you how much I admire and adore her."

"Well, there's something we can agree on," Sherlock replied. "Not bad for a Holmes Christmas gathering."

His mother swatted at him with a tea towel, that strange expression of fondness making a reappearance.

"You know she's perfect for you, Sherlock."

"Mm."

He usually knew when he was about to be upbraided for something that fell short of his mother's expectations, and this didn't feel like one of those occasions.

"She told me something," his mother continued, resting her hands on the kitchen island. "She told me she's loved you for a long time. As long as she's known you."

Sherlock's throat suddenly felt dry, raw. His mother didn't need to tell him that he was unworthy, and also extraordinarily, unaccountably lucky. He opened his mouth, knowing he would flounder as soon as he tried to compose the words - but his mother spoke again.

"She also said you were worth waiting for."

He...wasn't expecting that. When he looked up at his mother, he recognised the expression on her face, taking him back thirty years or more - her smile was tight, but her eyes were shining, and she was trying hold back the tears. Happy tears. As Sherlock thought about this, about not only the strength of Molly's feelings for him, but her willingness to express them to his mother, it threatened to overwhelm him, too.

Wanda Holmes crossed the room to her son, and Sherlock watched her take one of his hands in hers.

"You father said the same thing to me, a long time ago," she said, almost in a whisper. "This handsome, kind, open-hearted man, and I did my utmost to ignore him for the longest time. But he never faltered, never lost faith, and I am forever grateful."

Sherlock had always done his best not to analyse his parents' relationship - far easier to just compartmentalise them as Mummy and Dad, and to grouse about them accordingly - but now he wondered whether he might have learned something. He suspected that he might be doing this more and more as he and Molly set off down the path of parenthood.

His mother squeezed his hand in hers, patting his chest affectionately with her other hand.

"You might have your father's eyes, my darling boy, but I'm afraid you have my eyesight," she said with a wry chuckle.

This whole conversation should have left him shifting awkwardly, clawing desperately like a cornered animal, but something had changed - because now, Sherlock realised, they were seeing each other as equals, as adults meeting each other on the same level.

"It's so good to have you here, Sherlock," she said, patting his chest once more. "And when you leave, go back to London, welcome your child into the world and never, ever let a day go by without telling Molly you love her and that you're grateful she waited for you."

Suddenly he felt like there was a rock lodged in his throat, and it was all that he could do just to nod.

"Now, take this quiche through to the dining room, and go and rescue your lovely girl from your father," Wanda Holmes added, handing him a dish. "I think even Molly will be finding it hard to feign enthusiasm for his coin collection after all this time."


	7. Chapter 7

Molly would never get used to calling it 'supper' - to her it would always be dinner or even tea. Supper was a mug of cocoa and a biscuit, or a bowl of cornflakes in front of the telly. Nearly twenty years of living in London hadn't changed her view of this phraseology, but she wondered whether the next twenty years - of living amongst the Holmes family - might.

John had arrived with Rosie just after they'd sat down, tired and clearly just wanting to get his head down to sleep, but he had given them his best effort. Rosie had woken up on being removed from the car (which tended to happen now that she was no longer in an infant car seat) and had come through the door wailing and groggy with sleep. Molly had immediately offered to take over so John could at least get the bags and take off his coat, but Sherlock was a step ahead of her, gesturing for her to rest at the table. And Uncle Sherlock had worked his magic like he always did. He seemed to immediately realise that the sea of faces - some of them fairly unfamiliar - was distressing to his exhausted goddaughter, so instead he took her off to the sitting room to see the Christmas tree. Within a couple of minutes, the bawling ceased, replaced by the occasional loud hiccup and the murmurs of Sherlock's distinctive baritone. Molly had felt a surge of pride as she watched Sherlock's parents exchange surprised, 'fancy that' smiles.

Once John had brought everything into the house, Wanda Holmes took over, ushering him into the spare seat as she disappeared to the kitchen, returning with the food she had kept aside for him. Molly wondered whether Sherlock's mother was as aware as she was - and she knew as Sherlock was - that this might not be where John wanted to be. After all, two years ago, there was another heavily pregnant woman at this table.

"Shall I put something together for Rosie?" Sherlock's mother asked.

John cleared his throat, a slightly overwhelmed look on his face that Molly caught before he tried to hide it.

"Ah, she, ah...the childminder gave her some pasta before I collected her."

Mrs Holmes made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a tut; Molly imagined the Holmes boys - and girl - were fed on three hearty, varied, home-cooked meals a day. She caught John's eye and smiled. His back to Sherlock's mother, he returned Molly's smile and she saw him visibly relax.

"But if you've got something small, I'm sure she'd be keen," John added, looking over his shoulder. "It all looks great."

Gratified, Wanda Holmes selected a few bits and pieces from the serving plates at the table and put them on the plastic aeroplane-style tray that John pulled out of Rosie's carry-bag (Sherlock had his eye on a bee-shaped ride-on suitcase for their goddaughter for Christmas).

"I hardly think a child of less than two years is going to appreciate smoked salmon and artichoke hearts, Mother," Mycroft observed, helping himself to another slice of home-made meat pie.

"You were eating olive tapinade and lobster thermidor at eighteen months, my boy," Mr Holmes put in, patting his oldest son on the back. "Got a taste for it at my club. But then you weren't a fussy eater."

Molly stifled a smile, knowing how frustrated Sherlock would be to miss this perfect cue.

"Yes, well..." was all that Mycroft could say in return.

He wasn't wrong, though; Molly knew that Rosie would probably only touch half of what was on her plate, despite being a decent little eater. She wondered whether their baby would come to exasperate Wanda Holmes with his or her eating habits. She could almost picture a curly-haired Sherlock doppelganger hurling unwanted cod roe at its frustrated grandmother.

After a few more minutes, Molly volunteered to go and fetch Sherlock and Rosie, and found them sitting together in Timothy Holmes' old wing-back chair. He was flicking through images on his phone, photographs - Molly realised - of all the people Rosie knew. Like a set of flashcards of familiar faces.

"Who's this?" he said softly to Rosie, as Molly approached and perched on the arm of the chair. "It's Aunt Molly, isn't it? Now, as I'm sure you recall, Rosamund - thanks to your own nascent intelligence - that we were just discussing how your Aunt Molly is the most beautiful and captivating of all of these individuals."

Rosie made a happy noise and attempted her version of Molly's name, which couldn't help but make Molly grin (for her godfather's name, she hadn't progressed further than 'Shh', which was often cause for confusion).

"Oh, yes, and you pointed out that she's the cleverest, too, although I explained that this went without saying," Sherlock continued. "Much cleverer than your Uncle Mycroft and, I'm afraid, your daddy, too. Although he has a number of other qualities that some would consider useful and advantageous - he's a decent shot, for a start."

Molly slid her arm around Sherlock's shoulder, threading her fingers through his hair and feeling him relax back against her. With her other hand she took Rosie's smaller one, making a show of counting each finger.

"And your Uncle Sherlock knows that when he chooses to use it, his charm will get him anywhere," Molly said, hearing a low rumble of laughter from the man beside her.

"Anywhere?" he replied, with an arch of an eyebrow.

"Hmm, evidence would suggest so," Molly said, moving her hand to the swell of her belly.

Sherlock chuckled, his own hand coming to rest on her stomach. Almost straight away, Molly felt the baby respond, the wave of a kick pulsing just below her belly button. Sherlock met her gaze and held it for a long moment, his smile - like hers - barely contained.

"This is your cousin right here, Rosamund," Sherlock said, shifting his goddaughter on his knee so that she could get a closer look. "He's very nearly baked now, and your Uncle Sherlock is finding the waiting very difficult. It's probably analogous to the emotions you experience when someone mentions cake but said cake doesn't instantly appear. You're a lot like your Uncle Mycroft in that regard."

"Cake?" replied Rosie, hopefully.

She was a bright spark, no doubt about it. It wouldn't be long before she was running circles around them all, both literally and figuratively, Molly noted. Sherlock would, without question, be the biggest pushover of all of them.

"Your daddy's got some dinner for you, sweetheart," Molly said, choosing to try and sweep the cake question to one side. "Shall we go and have a look?"

Before Molly rose from the chair, Sherlock tilted his face upwards for a kiss, his eyes briefly closing. Rosie looked sceptical about the offer of dinner, but allowed Molly to pick her up (how did women manage when they were heavily pregnant _and_ toting a toddler around?). She felt Sherlock's hand on her shoulder as they made their way through to join the others.

000000000

Now she was struggling to stay awake, and she knew she was doing a poor job hiding it. She had never really considered how tiring it would be just to go through the motions of a normal day, carrying an extra twenty pounds around with her - probably more than that, given the midwife's exclamations about the size of their baby (although he or she was apparently "all arms and legs"). Add to that the big meal, a crackling fire and her comfortable position on a sofa that seemed to fold around her, and it was hardly surprising that she was on the verge of sleep. Sherlock stood leaning against the windowsill, Mycroft adopting a similar stance by the bookcase, like a pair of brooding sentries. Molly suspected this was always the way, both of them believing that sitting would be giving supremacy to the other, and both of them refusing to do anything that might give the impression of relaxing in their parents' home. Idiots, the pair of them.

"So how have you been spending your leave so far, Molly?" Mrs Holmes asked, setting down a tray with a teapot and china set. "I hope my son has been taking good care of you and letting you get plenty of rest."

Molly flicked a glance across the room to Sherlock, who was no doubt wondering how she might answer this. Well, the truth would suffice.

"We've, ah, we've been taking in a few museums," she replied. "I've been really enjoying it."

"You could probably write a guide book now, right, Molls?" John put in, flashing a look to Sherlock that Molly didn't miss. At least his willingness to tease Sherlock was probably a sign that John was feeling more comfortable.

Mrs Holmes gave a tut and aimed a pointed look at Sherlock.

"Honestly, Sherlock, she needs her rest."

"I'm sure Molly is the best judge of that," Sherlock's father put in, as he started to pour the tea.

"It's the only chance you get," his mother continued, undeterred. "It's not the same the second time around, when there's a little one to keep entertained. Well, not so little in my case, but you were quite a clingy thing, Mycroft."

"Thank you, Mother," Mycroft said darkly. "I always enjoy your little reminiscences."

The fact that Sherlock's mother assumed this baby was only the start of a new Holmes dynasty didn't go unnoticed to Molly. For a fleeting second she felt like a brood mare, but as the conversation was moving on, she was happy to let it lie. It was not like further children hadn't been discussed – but Molly refused to think too far ahead. For all she knew, they could be crap parents (although maybe that would be reason enough to have a second child – so the first would have an ally).

"We'll miss our little trio when we're next up in London," Mr Holmes said, aiming a benevolent smile her way. "You know, I automatically booked three tickets for _Hello Dolly_ next week. It's just habit now. Never mind."

"I would love to," Molly replied. "But it would be no fun for any of us. I can't sit in one position for more than a few minutes, and I'd be up and down to-"

Her eye caught sight of Mycroft, who seemed to be wincing. That man was so squeamish it was unbelievable.

"Well, you know – I'd be up and down the whole time," she said, compromising.

"Sounds like something Mycroft would enjoy, hm?" Sherlock suggested, with a tilt of the head towards his brother.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes and drew himself up to his full height, a sure mark of asserting dominance (it always surprised people that he was the taller one).

"Alas, brother mine, I fly to Vienna on Monday to spend Christmas with Alicia," he replied. "We have dinner and concert tickets at the Schönbrunn Palace on the twenty-fourth."

"Well, that beats _Christmas with Peppa Pig_ in the West End," John put in, sardonically. Molly smiled – the tickets had been a present from Mrs Hudson.

"I'm sorry, who?" Mycroft asked.

"Never mind," John replied, shaking his head. "I'll bring you a souvenir programme, Mycroft."

"How about you, William?" Mrs Holmes said, causing Sherlock to look up in alarm. "It wouldn't kill you to come, just this once. It would be a shame to waste the ticket."

"I would happily resell the ticket for you, Mother, if that's your concern," he replied. "I have a number of suitable contacts in the 'resale' business.

Molly fired him a look, which she could see he was doing his best to ignore - although she knew how hard it was for Sherlock to sit in once place for long and focus on one thing; the cinema was out of the question as a date option for the pair of them, even if she could find something he would enjoy (most fiction he dismissed as 'fanciful', 'absurd' or 'preposterous').

"Come on, Sherlock," his mother persisted. "It can be your Christmas present to us. We can meet Molly afterwards and all go out to supper."

Little did his mother realise that this year, Sherlock did have actual Christmas presents for them all. Molly had not been surprised to learn that Sherlock had long ago ordered his parents to stop buying him things, and not to expect anything to come their way either. However, she had convinced him that it would be a nice gesture, given everything that had happened in the past year, and once she'd convinced him of this, Sherlock had actually got stuck into the task.

"Fine. Yes. Whatever," was Sherlock's eventual response, issued with a resigned slump of his shoulders, not unlike a teenage boy, Molly noted. "But I saw a flyer for _Half a Sixpence_ on the kitchen noticeboard, so that one's Mycroft's."

"Lord help me," Mycroft muttered.

Tea was poured and consumed, along with slices of Wanda Holmes' Christmas cake, which Molly was convinced contained more whisky than would be advisable for a pregnant woman to consume. At some point, Sherlock drifted over to the sofa and sat beside Molly, his arm immediately going around her shoulder as he pressed a kiss to her temple, encouraging her to lean in to him in her tiredness. His other hand went to her belly as it so often did, idly rubbing soft circles. Molly felt her cheeks flush a little, gratified that Sherlock felt no unease about showing his affection for her in front of his family.

"Mm, Sherlock," John said, taking a bite of cake. "You haven't said anything about the NCT class yet."

Molly could almost feel Sherlock roll his eyes beside her.

"It was most…instructive," he replied. "Enlightening."

 _Liar_ , Molly thought with a smile.

"You didn't get kicked out then? Very impressive," John replied. "Did you sit on the floor?"

Sherlock sighed.

"Yes, John, I sat on the floor. You've seen me sit on a floor before, it was no hardship."

"And the breathing? Did you do the breathing thing?"

"Yes, John, I did the breathing. I had no idea this was so interesting to you; I'm starting to think that I should have just live-streamed the whole thing live on Twitter."

Molly squeezed Sherlock's hand, impressed at Sherlock's refusal to rise to John's good-natured baiting.

"Sherlock was great," she chipped in. "He made me feel very supported."

That bit was true, she reasoned – the fact that he turned up had made her feel supported and loved. It was probably best not to mention his deducing of their fellow soon-to-be parents (entertaining though she found them), the minor argument with the instructor over her approach to meditation, and the fact that she was fairly sure Sherlock was Mind Palacing for the last hour on the first day.

"Good for you, son," Mr Holmes said. "Of course, it was all a bit different when we started out. When Myc was born, I wasn't even allowed in the room. I rather feel I missed out."

"Well, he nearly passed out when you were born, Sherlock," Mrs Holmes said with a slight scoff. "The nurses were all looking after him while I got on with it. You drank that whole jug of water intended for me, do you remember, dear?"

Molly's hand went to Sherlock's knee. If there was one thing she could be fairly confident about, it was that Sherlock had seen much worse than childbirth – he had probably experienced pain almost equivalent too (she had first seen the scars as a physician, and later traced them with her fingers more intimately).

"Oh, but you were such a beautiful baby, William," Wanda Holmes gushed. "Such lovely features, such gorgeous big eyes."

Molly glanced up at Sherlock, who was doing his best to bear this nostalgia with grace and good humour. John, she could see, was wearing a grin so big Molly was concerned he might actually strain his face.

"Bald as an egg, of course," she continued. "We all got a bit of a shock when those lovely curls suddenly appeared a few weeks later."

Molly couldn't help giggling, knowing she was betraying the man she loved in his hour of need.

" _Et tu_ , Molly?" Sherlock said. "Really, I expect this of everything else in the room."

"Of course, Myc dropped Sherlock on his head when he was four months old," Mr Holmes cut in. "Do you remember that, Myc? You claimed you wanted to see what the bottom of his feet looked like."

"That may have been what I told you, yes, Dad," Mycroft replied, with the raise of an eyebrow.

"Just think, Sherlock," John said. "If Mycroft hadn't dropped you on your head, you could've turned out to be pretty clever."

"Exceptional wit, John, thank you," Sherlock said, returning his teacup to the coffee table.

"Mycroft was very different," Mrs Holmes said, clearly hitting her stride. "I had gestational diabetes with Mycroft and he was over ten pounds, which I can tell you was a lot for 1970 – in those days they didn't just offer you a caesarean, either. Good, healthy appetite right from the start, though – I remember the midwives were very pleased."

Sherlock barked with laughter, and Molly could see his brother practically shudder.

"So delighted I could oblige them," Mycroft said, thinly.

"And Emily," Mrs Holmes continued. "Emily was such a small, delicate thing. Very pretty, very quiet, always taking everything in."

Emily. She meant Eurus, Molly realised; like her brothers, at some point Eurus must have taken the decision to use her middle name.

The atmosphere in the room changed for a moment at the mention of the youngest Holmes, but Molly recognised the significance of this and felt a rush of warmth towards Sherlock's mother. She couldn't begin to understand some of the decisions that Sherlock's parents had taken over the years, but they had also been fed the biggest lie of all, had grieved for a child needlessly. Wanda Holmes was starting to think about her household as a family of five again.

Molly saw Timothy Holmes reach across the small divide between their armchairs and grasp his wife's hand in solidarity. After all these years, after all the traumas, they were still a partnership. Molly leaned into Sherlock, feeling him squeeze her shoulder slightly more tightly.

"She looked just like you," Timothy Holmes told his wife, quietly. "She still does."

Another moment passed before Mrs Holmes slapped her hands down on her knees, as though snapping out of a reverie.

"Enough of this nostalgic chatter," she said. "What am I thinking?"

She got to her feet and started to bustle towards the door.

"Mummy?" Mycroft said, questioningly. Molly was immediately touched by his obvious concern, noticing how it was echoed in Sherlock's stiffened posture.

"Photo albums, Mycroft!" came the reply. "All this talking and I have a cupboard of wonderful photographs just sitting there gathering dust!"

Both Holmes boys scrambled to their feet in alarm, Sherlock almost knocking Molly sideways on the sofa in his haste to stand up.

"I'm sorry," Mrs Holmes said, pausing at the door. "That wasn't very polite of me. Molly, John, would you be interested in seeing a few family snaps?"

Molly looked across to John, who looked like all his future Christmases had arrived early. Then she looked up at the man she loved, noted the pleading in his eyes, the way his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. With a final glance across the room to John, she turned to Sherlock's mother with as much composure as she could muster.

"Oh, I'm pretty exhausted, Wanda," she said, flicking a Sphinx-like smile in Sherlock's direction. "But I think we could manage one or two. Albums, I mean."

"Wonderful, I'll be right back!"

Mycroft's head dropped to his hand, Sherlock running a hand through his hair in despair. _Poor darlings_ , Molly thought, enjoying this shift of power. She would have some fun with this when she got Sherlock alone later.

"I get the feeling that our presence will not be required for this portion of the evening," Mycroft said eventually. "Cigarette, little brother?"

"No," Sherlock groused in reply. "Apparently, I've picked the absolute worst moment in my life to quit."

He fired Molly a look. Oh, she was _definitely_ going to enjoy this later.

"But I'm coming anyway," Sherlock added.

And with that, he strode across the room, grabbing a bottle of Scotch and two tumblers from the side table before following Mycroft out of the back door.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock had recently come to realise that his smoking habit had been about more than just his addictive nature, or a means of focusing his mind. More than about his perverse antisocial tendencies. A regular smoking habit had - in 21st century London - compelled him to remove himself from situations, from other people, if only for a precious five minutes. Smoking was, of course, a good way to broker useful relationships, too – sidle up to the target, ask for or offer them a light or cigarette, and you've got your in. He hadn't fully considered all of these myriad uses before he decided to quit. Of course, John and Molly had both spent years reminding him what he was doing to his body, but at the time it seemed the least of his demons. But being the recipient of Molly Hooper's kisses had put a new spin on things – he wanted to be his best for her, and he knew that she didn't want a lungful of extra strong mints any more than she wanted tobacco. And when she'd reminded him that she still wanted him to be around for the next fifty years, the last packet of Silk Cut was discarded in the bin outside Bart's.

Impending fatherhood had strengthened his resolve. There was the health thing, of course, but how many important moments in his child's life might he miss by just 'popping out for a fag'?

"You want me to breathe some of this your way?" Mycroft asked, taking a drab on one of his silly low-tar numbers. "It's not cheating, you know."

"Filthy habit," Sherlock replied. "A pastime for the weak-willed and fainthearted."

"There's nothing more nauseatingly pious than a reformed smoker," Mycroft sighed.

Sherlock had poured them both two fingers of whisky, and he handed one of the tumblers to his brother, who thanked him. It had been a bright day, but with no cloud-cover it was now a very cold evening, and Sherlock wished he'd grabbed his Belstaff from the hooks in the hallway.

"Christ, I'm never going to hear the end of it from John once he's been through those photographs," Sherlock muttered. "Are you telling me that your people haven't yet invented an accurate means of memory erasure?"

"Alas, no," Mycroft replied, wistfully. "But perhaps it's a cross we just have to bear. Or in street parlance, we need to 'suck it up'."

"For Mummy?"

"Indeed."

It was strange to think that somewhere, perhaps, his parents had a set of photo albums that he had never seen – or perhaps had seen as a young child and then forgotten. Pictures of the five of them, of Eurus as a baby and a young girl. It seemed inconceivable that his parents – both of them hoarders, and both sentimental in their own way – would have got rid of them. That was a question for another day, further down the line when his mother and father were ready.

"God, I hope they don't find that one from Uncle Rudy's second wedding," Sherlock said, recalling the image in question in horror.

"Ah, yes, the powder-blue knickerbockers and ruffled socks!" Mycroft replied. "An image so troubling even you couldn't delete it, brother mine."

"Yes, well, if I were you I'd be worried about the snaps from your 'dressing-up' phase," Sherlock retorted, taking a swig from his glass. "Nineteen-twenties flapper-girl was a particularly good look on you."

"That was for a production of _Cabaret_ ," Mycroft replied, tartly. "One of the perils of attending an all-boys boarding school."

"One of the perks, you mean," Sherlock smirked.

"My Desdemona in the fifth form was very well-received," Mycroft continued. _Dear god, was he reminiscing?_ "Won me the Senior Master's prize that year."

Sherlock had, of course, attended the same minor public school as Mycroft (and as their father before them), but of course his brother had long left by then – had graduated from Oxford, in fact. Being Mycroft Holmes' little brother led to certain expectations among the teaching faculty at his school – and he'd done his very best to blow every one of those to pieces. He certainly hadn't gone anywhere near the amateur dramatics club.

A short period of silence passed between them. Sherlock wondered what Molly was doing, whether she was still being bombarded with Holmes family history, or whether she had succumbed to sleep. Selfishly, he hoped for the former – he was still hopelessly enamoured by that feeling of having her drift off to sleep in his arms, of feeling like her protector, though he knew how ridiculous that was.

"So…" Mycroft began, taking another drag on what was now a very tiny cigarette. "Does it feel real yet?"

"Mm?"

"Fatherhood," his brother elaborated. "In a few weeks' time, the world as you know it will change. You'll never get it back."

Sherlock nodded, his gaze dropping to the ground for a moment. Mycroft might sound as though he was issuing a warning, but Sherlock knew differently – his brother wanted to check that he was ready, that he wasn't secretly having some kind of nervous breakdown and was planning an imminent escape under cover of darkness.

"Terrified though I am," Sherlock replied carefully. "And I _am_ terrified, I have also never been more certain of anything. I have a real job now, Mycroft, something at which I have no choice but to work hard and succeed – and I find there's nothing else I want more. I want to continue to be worthy of Molly's love, and to strive to earn the love of my child."

He found that he had said more than he intended, than he would ever usually share with his big brother. But instead of coming back with a glib retort, Mycroft merely lowered his eyes, gave the faintest of nods. Then, he looked up.

"Oh, I almost forgot," he said. "The information you were seeking."

He reached into the pocket of his suit jacket and retrieved a folded piece of paper, which he offered to Sherlock.

"She's expecting your call," he added.

"Thank you, Mycroft," Sherlock said, pocketing the slip of paper. "Although you could have just sent a text like everyone else in this century."

"A folded piece of paper has the touch of the dramatic," Mycroft replied.

"Yes, it's not the only thing that does."

Sherlock set his tumbler down on the low garden wall. That was him done with drinking for one night. He wondered how closely his brother had been listening to the conversation in the sitting room earlier on, whether he felt the same resonations and implications.

"Our mother mentioned Eurus," he said eventually. "I haven't heard her do that voluntarily in front of anyone aside from our father and the two of us."

Mycroft nodded.

"Perhaps the counselling is working," he replied.

"Perhaps our family is," Sherlock replied.

His brother gave a snort, but when Sherlock turned to look at him he was smiling, made no flippant comeback.

At that moment, the back door to the house creaked open, followed almost immediately by the sound of someone stumbling and then cursing.

"Nice of you to join us, John," Sherlock said, without turning around. "Mind your footing."

"Who puts a flowerpot right outside a door?" John grumbled. "They're bloody everywhere here."

"Our mother is a keen horticulturalist," Mycroft replied. "She likes to nurture. Hard to believe, I know."

John came to stand between them, and the symbolism was not lost on Sherlock – except this evening it didn't seem necessary.

"I've brought my own glass," he said, holding up an empty tumbler and nodding towards the Scotch bottle on the wall. Mycroft passed it across to him.

"So, I take it you're done with laughing at our expense?" Sherlock enquired.

"For now. There's only so much laughter a person can take in one evening," John replied. "But I'm looking forward to the next instalment at breakfast tomorrow. I've been promised Maypole Dancing at the village fete, lederhosen on a family holiday in Austria, plus a few gems from Mycroft's New Romantic phase."

Mortifying though it was, Sherlock was suddenly struck by the wealth of valuable blackmail material that had just been lying dormant in his parents' home for all these years. Why hadn't he thought of all this when Mycroft was putting the screws in him countless times over the years?

"I assume Dr Hooper was suitably amused as well?" Mycroft replied, with a roll of the eyes.

"You assume right," John replied, lifting his tumbler in a brief toast. "Although there was a fair bit of 'oohing' and 'aahing', too, over this git over here."

Stupid though it seemed, Sherlock felt a familiar warmth surge through his chest like a tidal wave; it seemed to happen every time he was reminded of the strength and amazing endurance of Molly's love for him.

"Where is Molly now?" he asked, hoping it sounded like a casual enquiry.

"She went up to bed at the same time as your parents," John told him. "They were all kind of helping each other up the stairs."

Mycroft snorted, leaning down to stub out his cigarette on the wall before dropping the butt into a nearby planter. He had to know that their mother would find it the next morning, and this time there would be no quarrelling over the identity of the culprit.

Just then, Sherlock felt his phone buzz in his pocket and heard the only unique text alert he had set up on his phone. The screen lit up as he opened the message:

 _Apparently, I'm not as tired as I thought - fancy creating those better memories now? Mxxx_

The effect on him was instant. He swallowed hard. Thank god it was so dark in the countryside, or else his brother and his friend were bound to notice the expression he was now wearing – somewhere between goofy and aroused.

"Have either of you noticed that it's December and it's bloody freezing out here?" John said, cupping the tumbler of whisky in both hands. "This isn't some weird competitive endurance thing you're doing, is it?"

"I was just thinking about going in, actually," Sherlock replied, attempting to keep his tone set to 'breezy' and adding a yawn for effect. "Better check that Molly was able to get out of her footwear okay."

John sniggered, looking at him with raised eyebrows.

"Um, yeah. Her footwear, Sherlock. I'm sure that's all she needs helping getting out of."

"That's my heavily pregnant pathologist you're talking about, Watson," Sherlock retorted, with a growl. "Kindly cease and desist with the juvenile innuendo."

John held up his hands in good-natured surrender.

Despite the urge to sprint up to his old bedroom where Molly would be waiting for him (no doubt in some tempting state of dress or undress), Sherlock did his best to keep his composure as he made his departure.

"Goodnight, John," he said, with a nod towards his friend. "Goodnight, Mycroft. Don't eat all the Christmas cake."

As he walked away, Sherlock heard John's voice, just loud enough so he could hear it.

"Yup, he's definitely getting lucky."

Without turning, Sherlock raised his hand and aimed an unambiguous gesture in his friend's direction.

"In case you can't see it clearly in the dark, John, that's my middle finger."

He heard his friend's chuckle, which grew into downright laughter as Sherlock – in his haste to make it back indoors – tripped over one of his mother's plant pots and narrowly avoided splitting open his forehead on a terracotta Buddha.

"Mind your footing, Sherlock!" Mycroft crowed, and as Sherlock picked himself up and opened the back door, he heard both men laughing together. Fair enough, Sherlock thought magnanimously – they both deserved a bit of enjoyment once in a while, even if more often than not these days, it seemed to be at his expense.

But neither of _them_ , he grinned to himself, were about to go to bed with Molly Hooper.


	9. Chapter 9

The house was as quiet at night as Sherlock always remembered it to be when he was growing up. Every sneaked cigarette in the garden, every attempt to escape when he was supposedly grounded, had to be carried out with the utmost stealth. Of course, that had only made the challenge more exciting. This time, however, he was creeping past his parents' door in the _other_ direction, anxious not to wake them, and he supposed tonight was another first, too - the first time there was a girl in his boyhood bedroom. _Only about twenty-five years later than normal_ , he heard John say in his head.

Sherlock winced as his foot planted on the dodgy floorboard outside his room, the one he'd been convinced his parents had tampered with on purpose (he was surprised they hadn't installed a tripwire when we was in his teens). It wouldn't be the end of the world if his parents woke up, but now his eyes were on the prize in his bedroom, the last thing he wanted was to be waylaid by a 'goodnight chat' with his father concerning his shrinking prostate or with his mother concerning her recurring sciatica. Bound to kill the mood.

When he entered his room Molly was sitting on top of the duvet, and looked up at him from the novel she was reading and smiled. Immediately, Sherlock felt the change within himself, the sudden slowing of his mind, the relaxation of his usually-frantic synapses, the stilling of his body: this was the Molly Hooper Effect, and it got him every time. He met her gaze and held it as he toed off his shoes and started slowly crawling up the bed towards her. Molly set her book aside, keeping her eyes locked with his until their noses were almost touching and Sherlock could feel her breath mingling with hers as he braced himself above her.

"Hello," she said in a whisper, biting her lip as she smiled.

"Hello," Sherlock replied, feeling his mouth pull into a grin. Such was the size of her bump, their bodies were flush with each other, and Molly's arms went around his neck, drawing him in for a long, slow kiss. He could almost feel his brain flood with dopamine.

"Mm," Molly said, as they broke the kiss, Sherlock still hovering above her. "You taste of whisky. S'nice."

"Molly, are you trying to use me as proxy for getting drunk while alcohol is off limits?" he replied, raising an eyebrow.

She swatted him in the shoulder, causing him to chuckle. They both apparently noticed the small scattering of something that dropped from his suit jacket.

"Um, Sherlock, why are you covered in soil?"

"A dangerous encounter with a garden ornament in the shape of Buddha," he grumbled.

"Was that karma for something you did to Mycroft?" Molly giggled.

"Don't make jokes, Molly," Sherlock said, with what he hoped was a devilish smile.

Molly clearly recognised this as a warning as to what was coming next, but she didn't put up any resistance when Sherlock lunged at her, nuzzling into her neck and causing her to whoop with laughter. In the ensuing tickle-fight, Sherlock shucked off his jacket before resuming his ministrations, capturing Molly's mouth with his and sliding the spaghetti straps of her vest top from her shoulders. He felt her hands move from his own shoulders, down the sides of his neck, until small, dexterous fingers made contact with the buttons of his shirt. _The game was on._

Molly made typically short work of his shirt, which somehow wound up adorning a lamp on the dresser, and soon her hands were all over his upper body - she made no secret of the fact that she was fairly keen on his torso, and Sherlock was quite happy to indulge her. But fair's fair, and he was pretty keen on her upper body, too; he slid his fingers beneath the (frankly ludicrously stretchy) vest, urging it over Molly's head and allowing her the honour of casting it dramatically to some distant point in the bedroom, which she did with a wicked grin. The kissing resumed, and Sherlock allowed his fingers to swoop softly over the curve of her bump, caressing it, worshipping it - and her - as he acknowledged to himself once again that he was incredibly, unfeasibly lucky. He placed a kiss just above her belly button, and in return felt Molly's fingers slide through his hair (how had he lived without that glorious sensation for so many years?)

Sherlock kissed a line northwards, marking out a route between his pathologist's frankly fantastic breasts (even more distracting since pregnancy had taken over) and up her neck, causing the kind of beautiful and arousing giggles and sighs guaranteed to spur him on.

"You realise my parents are right next door," he said in a low whisper as his lips once again met Molly's.

"Mm-hmm," she responded, her fingers curling around his neck.

"I'm sensing there's something you find appealing in that?" he queried.

Molly pulled away a little, her gaze meeting his. A tiny mischievous smile played on her lips.

"Don't tell me you don't feel the same," she whispered.

"I'm forty, Molly, not fourteen," he replied, his voice emerging as a low rumble in the quiet of the room. "I'm sure my parents are under no illusion as to how this" – he gestured to her abdomen – "happened."

"Even so…" she smiled, and Sherlock felt her fingers going to work on the button of his trousers. "There's something a bit...you know…about it?"

Reluctant though Sherlock was to admit it, she was right of course. He gave Molly a hand, kicking himself free of his trousers, a relief considering how uncomfortably tight they had become in certain areas.

"We'll have to be quiet," he murmured, capturing her earlobe between his lips.

"Mm-hmm."

"I'm only telling you because I know you sometimes struggle with 'quiet'."

Sherlock felt Molly playfully flick his own earlobe, signalling her annoyance.

"We'll see who manages to stay the quietest," she replied, her voice sending perfect shivers of desire down his spine at the same time as he felt her fingers circling the waistband of his boxers.

"Sounds like a challenge," he growled, reaching down until his fingers made contact with the backs of Molly's knees. Didn't she realise he knew her weak spots all too well – and that he didn't play fair? He'd barely had time to properly tickle her before she shrieked with laughter, burying her face in his collar bone to muffle the noise.

"You cheating sod!" she whispered.

"Speaking of challenges…" Sherlock said. He sat back on his knees, folding his arms across his chest and tilting his head on one side as he studied the baby-sized obstacle that lay between them.

"Oh shut up, you!" Molly hissed, smiling. "It's not like you're being asked to scale Ben Nevis!"

"Not far off," he replied, thoughtfully, steepling his fingers beneath his chin in a show of mock-deduction. "Should have brought crampons and a safety helmet. Possibly a compass and map, too."

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"Shut up and shag me."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

A little while later, Sherlock could feel Molly drowsing in his arms. He sat with his back against the pillows, Molly's own back against his chest as she sat between his legs (the last time they'd sat like this had been during the 'preparing for labour' part of the damned NCT class, but he was realising now how much he liked this position). It was late now, but Sherlock didn't feel tired yet – he hoped his nocturnal patterns might be of help to Molly once their baby arrived, enabling her to get a bit more sleep. His right hand rested on top of her bump, the other twined with the fingers of her left hand. Her empty left hand. Could this be the moment?

He swallowed, glancing at his overnight bag.

"Your mum showed me some photographs of your sister," Molly said suddenly.

Sherlock let out his breath, unaware that he'd been holding it. The window had passed.

"Just a few, after John had gone upstairs to check on Rosie," she added. "She was pretty, quite sweet-looking. It was…you couldn't tell that she was any…different."

"I haven't seen them," Sherlock replied, immediately wondering how it would make him feel, what it might do for his memory-recall. "I don't remember much. I suppose it's good that my mother is looking at them, though. And that she felt able to share that with you."

Molly nodded, flexing her fingers under his.

"I felt…privileged," she said. "Though I didn't really know what to say. I mean, she was a little girl – your mum's little girl – but it's hard…when I know what she did to you…tried to do to us."

"You hate her?"

She shook her head adamantly, and Sherlock knew that it had been foolish to use the word 'hate' where Molly was concerned. Over the period of seven years he had almost exhausted the catalogue of words and deeds that could cause Molly to hate him, and somehow all it had done was to make her love stronger, more fierce.

"No. I want to understand her. Help her."

"Me too," Sherlock nodded, sighing. "And I believe we'll get there, slowly, with patience. I believe with time she'll allow us."

He had thought a lot over the past months about Molly meeting Eurus, whether it was a good idea at all – and if so, when. His sister was still non-verbal, electing only to communicate with him through music and the strange simpatico that seems to exist between them. Sherlock was confident that she understood how he felt about her, that he understood, that he forgave her though her crimes were abhorrent to him. He even forgave her for the hurt she had caused Molly, a stranger to her, someone who had caused her no harm (although he had often wondered whether he would have offered Eurus the same forgiveness if Molly hadn't forgiven _him_ after Sherrinford, hadn't given him a second chance).

"I showed her the ultrasound," he said suddenly, finding himself speaking a memory out loud.

He felt Molly's body tense slightly in her arms.

"So…she knows," she said, quietly. Sherlock had fear in her voice and understood it completely, given the vindictive, destructive path that his sister had previously chosen. The ultrasound had been a gamble, but it had felt right – and Eurus' reaction had instantly reassured him. She felt included, trusted, part of a family again in the way that she so desperately craved – and that had caused her to go to such extremes.

"She won't hurt us again," Sherlock murmured. "I promise. She's…happy for me."

"Trust you to attract the world's most dangerous match-maker," Molly snorted.

It was true, of course; the twisted, gut-wrenching, heart-shattering way Eurus had wrung confessions out of them both. Confessions, Sherlock knew full well may have stayed hidden had she not intervened. He couldn't bring himself to thank her for what she'd done, but the irony wasn't lost on him.

"I want to meet her," Molly said, twisting her face to look up at him.

"You will," he replied. "I think she would like that very much."

She didn't ask him when – she knew better than that – but seemed satisfied by his assertion. It didn't seem out of the question that his son might one day meet his aunt.

"The other photos were more fun…" Molly said, relaxing her head back against him. Sherlock could practically feel the smile on her face. He rolled his eyes – he should have known better than to assume that sex (even really good sex) would be enough to distract from that topic of conversation.

"Please promise me that if there's ever another family wedding, you'll wear the shorts and frilly socks again," Molly giggled.

The mention of the 'w' word gave a jolt to Sherlock's heart, which Molly must surely have felt against her skin. But clearly she was enjoying the current subject matter too much.

"I also thought the one of you naked and holding a dustpan and brush was adorable," she continued, clearly trying to adopt a serious tone.

"I was two years old, Molly," he pointed out. For god's sake, he thought he'd told his mother to destroy that one, along with 'naked in the sea at Eastbourne' and 'naked pirate in the bath'.

"True. But if you wanted to do the cleaning like that these days, I probably wouldn't object – just so you know," she told him.

"Noted. Thank you."

She twisted around in his arms – as far as her bump would allow – and pulled his face down to hers for a kiss. It had only been intended as an affectionate peck, but ended up becoming warmer, more considered, more reflective.

When they parted, Molly reclined back against him and Sherlock drew his fingers through her hair, which – as he had read - seemed thicker and even more silky than before she was pregnant (although, admittedly, it wasn't really until _after_ she got pregnant that he'd had regular opportunities to evaluate Molly's hair).

"My mother told me something tonight," he began. "You told her…that you've always loved me."

Molly's fingers laced with his own again.

"You know that, Sherlock," she replied, warmly. "Ever since the first day you burst into the morgue with Greg trailing behind you. Although I'll admit that at that point it was probably something a bit less, um, _pure_ , than love."

Sherlock snorted.

"Well, for most people things tend to go downhill at that point," he said. "I plummet in their estimations once I open my mouth."

Molly laughed, drawing his arms more tightly around her. Sherlock placed a kiss in her hair, just above her ear.

"Molly…"

"Mm?"

"I love you. So much. More and more with every passing moment."

She turned her head again, and she smiled the smile he had long ago committed to his Mind Palace, the one seemingly only for him.

"I love you, too, Sherlock," she replied. "Always have, always will."

"And," he said, drawing a breath. "I know I've said it before, but I will always be grateful – so humbled and grateful – that you waited for me."

She bit her lip thoughtfully.

"I don't think I had a choice," she replied. "I came to realise that it was you or nobody. Because who else could possibly compare?"

He smiled, in awe as ever of how at peace Molly was with her feelings; how far he still had to go.

"I think it meant a lot to my mother," he told her. "To hear that from you. Perhaps it has given her comfort that I wasn't the fundamentally unlovable bastard that she thought I was for all those years."

"Of course you weren't," she replied, fingers stroking down his thigh. "Although I probably played down how hard you made it sometimes."

Sherlock placed his hand over hers, drawing it up to meet his lips.

Just then, they heard the sound of a door opening and footsteps leaving the room next door, heading down the hallway.

"D'you think we woke them?" Molly whispered, giggling softly.

Sherlock smirked.

"I was more concerned that what we were doing might bring on early labour."

"That's a myth, Sherlock," Molly replied, nudging his leg. "Weren't you listening during that NCT class? Besides, I have no intention of having this baby in the middle of nowhere with John seeing parts of me that I'd prefer remain forever a mystery to him – and with your brother anywhere in the vicinity."

"Don't worry," Sherlock grinned. "I expect Mycroft has a helicopter on standby in case of that very scenario."

Molly laughed, leaning back and placing a kiss on his Adam's apple. She patted his knee.

"I have to pop to the loo," she told him, pushing herself forward on the bed until her feet dangled off the end.

Sherlock scrambled across the bed to help her to her feet.

"Say hello to my father while you're there," he quipped. "You'll probably pass each other in relay during the night."

Molly shot a sarcastic smile in his direction.

"Very funny," she replied. "And to think I called you adorable earlier."

Before he had a chance to reply, Molly had given his arse a loving pinch before scampering out of the bedroom and out of sight, a barely-suppressed peal of laughter disappearing with her. Sherlock had to hand it to her - for a woman eight months pregnant, she could move like a damn cat when she wanted to.


	10. Chapter 10

John had assumed that when he came back downstairs from looking in on Rosie, he would have the sitting room to himself. Although he was both physically and mentally wiped out, he liked the idea of a few minutes on his own to clear his head; spending time with Sherlock and his family was like being caught in a hurricane that seemed to have no eye. He supposed that was probably Molly now, but she had spent the evening being either monopolised by Sherlock's parents (and no doubt by Sherlock now, too, although 'monopolised' likely wasn't the right term for what he was doing).

So when he walked into the room and saw Mycroft sitting in his father's chair, he nearly had a mild heart attack.

"I thought you'd gone to bed!" he exclaimed.

"Ditto," replied Mycroft, his smile a clear indicator of the pleasure he took from the element of bloody surprise.

"No, just, ah, just checking on Rosie," he replied. "You know, unfamiliar house, travel cot. Thought she might…never mind."

John could see there was little point in continuing with an explanation in which his audience clearly had no interest (he'd learned that lesson with the younger brother a long time ago).

"Quite," Mycroft replied. He held up the glass that was in his hand. "Care for a nightcap? I've opened the Avonside Glenlivet 1938. I believe it was a gift from Sherlock to my father, though he didn't pay a penny for it – a gesture of thanks from a grateful laird, I understand."

John hadn't been intending to have another drink (never a good idea when you have a child due to wake up in a few short hours), but he wasn't about to turn down a decent single malt. Picking up on this, Mycroft gestured towards the bottle on top of the drinks cabinet.

"I trust the new residence is working out?" Mycroft asked, as John took a seat at the end of the sofa.

"Uh, yeah, it's, ah, it's great," he replied, trying to find firm seating in piece of furniture that seemed to be trying to consume him. "It's just perfect for Rosie and me. Ideal. Thank you for organising all the work."

"Never let it be said that one doesn't repay one's debts," Mycroft replied, raising his glass a little. John started to wonder whether he was drinking the whisky, or just using it as a prop. It was also unclear as to what debts Mycroft was alluding to, but he knew Sherlock's brother was unlikely to elaborate.

"You should come by," John said. "See the work. I'm sure Mrs Hudson would find a plate of biscuits for you."

"I doubt your dear landlady would welcome me across the threshold. I rather think that I'm not her favourite person."

John took a sip from his glass. Jesus, that was good whisky.

"Mrs Hudson? She's just very protective of Sherlock," he replied. "But she's a forgiving soul. On the whole. I mean, I wouldn't get on the wrong side of her, as I strongly suspect she still has an address book full of her husband's old associates, but she knows the full story. And she's absolutely overjoyed to have Sherlock and Molly living there, not to mention yet another baby to ply with cuddly toys."

Mycroft gave a soft, wry laugh.

"Love conquers all?"

"Apparently," John replied, trying to banish any thought of Mary from his mind for the immediate moment (he would allow time for that later, in the privacy of his own room). "Certainly seems to be working for those two."

He nearly added something else, an implication about Mycroft and Lady Smallwood, but thought better of it for the moment. John realised that it had been many months since he'd been alone in a room with Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft had, it felt, been keeping his distance a little. Offers (or demands) of work for Sherlock had come to an abrupt halt after that horrible confrontation in Sherlock's flat with his parents, and John supposed that any other – non-work related - interaction between the brothers would be uncomfortable for them both. He had wondered, though, what all this had done to Mycroft – surely he couldn't be unaffected? Everything that happened at Sherrinford, the fallout with their parents, the transformation of his little brother's life…even The Ice Man couldn't really be that cold.

"Did you see this coming?" John asked eventually, nodding vaguely in the direction of upstairs.

"By 'this', I assume you're referring to my brother's state of domestic bliss?"

John nodded.

"I rather feared it might be on the cards when he returned from the dead."

"You _feared_?"

"Yes," Mycroft replied, carefully, drawing out the word. "I couldn't see any advantage to my brother forming a strong romantic attachment. Something so distracting, something with such power over him as to crush him if he failed. I was aware that Sherlock had certain _inclinations_ towards Dr Hooper. Thankfully, by the time it had the potential to become problematic, there was a fiancé conveniently in the way."

John coughed as the mouthful of whisky seemed to catch in his throat. He looked up at his drinking companion.

"You're starting to think that your landlady was right about me," Mycroft continued, evenly. "That I'm an unfeeling monster?"

"Pretty sure she said reptile, but yeah, I'm beginning to see how she got that impression," John replied. "What about Sherlock's happiness? Didn't mean anything?"

"You have to understand something, Dr Watson," Mycroft began, gazing into his glass. "Hard as though it may be to believe, I have only ever acted in what I perceived as my brother's best interests. Did what I thought was best for him in the circumstances. Does he talk much about the years before he met you?"

John shrugged, shook his head. Sherlock's young adulthood was a mystery to him and John had been left to piece it together from hearsay and guesswork. Almost every attempt to enquire into his friend's past had been met with a curt response, a refusal to engage.

"As you can now well imagine, Sherlock was not the child he was after our sister's…interventions," Mycroft continued. "The playful, imaginative boy he had been was too fragile, too emotional to survive the loss a friend, a home and then, later, a sister. He became withdrawn, detached, hard for us all to reach. Then came the sullen, arrogant, socially-maladjusted adolescent who broke our parents' heart when he got himself dramatically expelled from school…and then came the drugs."

John nodded. He had wondered how early that had all started; now he knew the story of Sherlock's early childhood as well as he did, the pieces easily fell into place.

"Of course, our parents had no idea what to do, although to give them credit, they did try. A new school, home tutoring, attempts at counselling, a spell at an adolescent treatment facility. Somehow, my brother managed to graduate from university, but by that time his genius for applied chemistry was being 'applied', shall we say, for more recreational purposes."

Mycroft paused, placed his tumbler back on the side table. He gave a brief, tight smile.

"I became uncomfortably familiar with the drug dens of north London," he said. "He would always record what he had taken, but couldn't stop himself taking it. I had to…find another way to help him. Create the legend of Sherlock Holmes, as it were."

"What does that mean?" John asked, wondering what kind of story he was being spun, whether he could even trust a man who kept the nation's darkest secrets for a living.

"I helped him the only way I knew," Mycroft elaborated. "Taught him how I had survived it all."

John nodded, beginning to understand.

"By rejecting emotions, by developing a clinical, rational approach to the world," John said, feeling no need to pose his words as a question. "By convincing himself he was a bloody sociopath."

"That much was Sherlock's decision," Mycroft said. "Something of which he seemed to need to convince himself. I never applied the same…sobriquet to myself."

"It was a persona," John nodded.

"To a degree," Mycroft said carefully. "But you have to remember the role that extreme trauma played in his early life. His emotional development was halted in the most violent of ways; even before my intercession he was struggling with relationships, with human contact. I strove to demonstrate to Sherlock how could use that struggle to his advantage, as I did. The extraordinary mind that he was trying to dull with narcotics could instead be harnessed for a purpose."

" _Your_ purpose," John said.

"I gave Sherlock the opportunity to use his brilliance for broadly good means," Mycroft replied. For a man with such disdain for politicians, he was certainly adept at sounding like one. "Besides, I would rather have my brother working for me than against me. Had I left it any longer, the Moriartys and Magnussens of this world would have surely made him a better offer."

The surprising thing was that this made some sort of sense; it was – however tragic – perfectly believable. It was hard to imagine, John reflected, that at the point he entered Sherlock's life – or Sherlock entered his – his friend was already over the worst.

"I hope…" Mycroft began again, perhaps picking up on John's discomfort. "…you realise that my position has changed? That…my view of sentiment and its role and influence in a person's life – my brother's life - has…shifted?"

John looked up in time to catch a look in Mycroft's eyes that he couldn't recall seeing before. He somehow looked…vulnerable. Was this repentance? John watched him place his well-manicured hand on top of his glass, as though contemplating his next words.

"Do you think my future sister-in-law will forgive me?" he enquired. His tone was changed, tentative.

John felt his features relax and, against his will, pull into a smile - Mycroft Holmes was scared of Molly Hooper!

"Molly is the most compassionate, patient and forgiving human being I know," John replied. "She is fierce when it comes to defending and protecting Sherlock, but I've never seen her bear a grudge."

He thought back to the couple of occasions when he knew he'd caused Molly to feel genuine anger towards him; when he had blamed Sherlock for Mary's death, when he had forced Molly to shut Sherlock out and kept him away from his goddaughter. When he'd beaten Sherlock to a pulp in that hospital morgue, when grief was still searing his heart. It had caused him real, lasting shame – after all, Molly Hooper had the forbearance of a saint, and didn't anger easily. But their friendship had survived the course, mostly thanks to Molly and her amazing capacity for forgiveness and understanding. And the fact that she was head over heels in love probably helped.

He reflected on Mycroft's words again.

"Wait, you said 'future sister-in-law'. Mycroft, do you know something I don't?"

"That would hardly be an unusual state of affairs now, would it?" he replied, with typical smugness. "But on this occasion am merely assuming – with a good degree of confidence – that my brother intends to marry Dr Hooper sooner rather than later."

"I thought maybe you were helping him engineer something," John muttered, wondering why he suddenly felt a sense of disappointment.

"Grand romantic gestures are not really my area," Mycroft said. "I'm afraid in that regard, my little brother is on his own."

John couldn't help but think to his own grand romantic gesture three years ago, all of the planning that went into it, and the fact that he ended up spending that evening in a caff with a dead man and a lot of questions. Just not the question he'd planned on asking that night.

"You know, this whole thing blindsided me completely," he heard himself saying, shaking his head. "I keep asking myself how I didn't see it, how I didn't _know_ how Sherlock felt about Molly."

Mycroft gave another wry smile.

"In fairness to you, Dr Watson, I don't believe my brother really knew either – until our sister _enlightened_ him."

It didn't take much to be back in that room again; the plywood coffin the centre, the live feed from Molly's home on the screen in front of them. The feeling of helplessness, particularly when Molly changed the game, turned the tables on Sherlock.

"As soon as he said it…" John said. "I couldn't see his face, but the way he said it…Sherlock's told a lot of lies in his time, and nobody lies like Sherlock, but I knew right away he was telling Molly the truth. That he meant it."

"Indeed," Mycroft replied. "Although it was hard to conceive at the time that any of us might survive to witness the consequences."

"And to be honest," John continued. "When he didn't immediately go to her when we got back, I thought that was it - all forgotten, everything forgiven, back to normal. 'Course I had no idea he was planning that whole ridiculous scheme."

"Hm?"

John looked at Mycroft's questioning expression, which confused him momentarily.

"The pregnancy," he continued, waiting for Mycroft's expression to change to one of recognition. "His plan to get Molly pregnant…aaannd you have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?"

He sighed. Jesus, the one time he appeared to have more information than Mycroft Holmes and he wished he'd never opened his bloody mouth.

"He thought it would make Molly happy," John sighed. May as well finish what he's started. "Except he didn't actually check with her first."

Mycroft made a humming sound.

"That sounds like the sort of terrible plan my brother would devise," he replied.

"You're not going to tell your parents, are you?"

It was hard to believe that he hadn't just handed Mycroft a very convenient hand-grenade to lob into a family gathering at the time of his choosing.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, a slow smile spreading across his face.

"I can't see any advantage in imparting that particular information," he answered, crossing one leg over the other. "Contrary to what you may think, John, I do have some investment in my family's happiness. As it is, my mother and father are perhaps seeing for the first time in Sherlock the son they always should have had. Who am I to deny them that?"

The unusually sincere tone of his words came as a huge relief - perhaps the secret was safe in Mycroft's hands. But it made John start to consider something else…

"And what about you?" he asked. "Can the same be said for their eldest son, too?"

Mycroft responded with one of his inscrutable smiles.

"I am afraid I am beyond redemption, Dr Watson."

John shook his head; he wasn't letting Mycroft get off that easily.

"I was there in that room at Sherrinford, Mycroft. When Eurus wanted to make Sherlock choose? You were prepared to sacrifice yourself."

Mycroft glanced across to where his hand was toying with the smooth lip of the whisky tumbler.

"I'm a pragmatic man, John. It was clear to me that in those circumstances, I had less to offer my brother than you did."

There was a pause. Mycroft pursed his lips, then released them again, his gaze still fixed somewhere on the side table.

"And of course I bore no small amount of responsibility for our situation," he added. "Sherlock believed he committed the crime of hubris when he failed to anticipate Vivienne Norbury's next move..."

John swallowed, felt his jaw clench. When he looked up, he realised that Mycroft was waiting for his permission to continue. The smallest of nods appeared to be enough.

"…And when I stood in that room, at the mercy of my sister - who had already shown she didn't know the meaning of the word – I knew exactly how he felt. All that time, I believed I was in control of the situation, that I had foreseen and planned for every possibly outcome. But it was pure arrogance – and there comes a point where arrogance becomes folly."

"You wanted to make it an easy choice for Sherlock."

Mycroft smiled.

"I'd like to think it wouldn't have been _easy_ , per se, but I suppose I hoped I could influence his decision, yes," he said. "The magnitude of what I'd done…the corollary effect of every decision I'd ever made regarding my sister. I denied her that which I saw little value in myself, but which mattered immensely to Eurus – a place in a family."

"And the love of a brother who understood her," John finished, thinking about Sherlock's dogged determination to build a lasting dialogue with his damaged sister.

Mycroft dipped his head in a nod; his expression said _precisely_.

"Do your parents know what Eurus tried to do to Sherlock and Molly?" John asked. It was something he hadn't actually considered until that moment.

"I haven't told them," Mycroft replied. "They know about the governor and the Garrideb brothers; they know about the therapist she killed. But I left the rest to Sherlock, at his discretion. Given the way things have worked out, I hope that particular chapter can be water under the bridge. Like I said, I have no particular desire to cause unnecessary ructions in my family."

John glanced over at the clock on the mantelpiece; it really was late, and he'd be an idiot not to think about going to bed now. He set his glass on the table.

"Considering we all went through hell," he began. "A surprising number of positives seemed to have come out of it."

Mycroft looked up, acknowledging this thought with a brief nod.

"Who'd have thought I would become an uncle in less than a year?" he said with a wry smile. But John noted that Mycroft's attempts at cynicism were half-hearted at best; he wasn't fooling anyone.

John held out his hand for Mycroft's glass, intending to tidy up their mess before bed.

"Boy or girl?" he asked, grinning.

Mycroft handed over his tumbler, fixing John with a look.

"I know that my brother feels very strongly that we shall we welcoming a male heir to the Holmes name," he said. "Therefore, naturally, my money has to go on a girl."

"Mine, too," John said. "That's the generally consensus down at the Met as well. Anderson is running a book. Although I've also seen 'Vulcan', 'Timelord' and 'evil genius' given as alternative suggestions."

Mycroft snorted.

"Our mother and father won't care, as long as they can visit once a week and adorn it in ridiculous outfits."

John turned to head through the door to the kitchen.

"Yeah, judging by those photographs, they have a real eye for ridiculous outfits," he said. "That lederhosen is going to take a long time to scrub from my brain."

Mycroft stood up, cocking his head as though to concede that small victory to John. He checked his pocket watch before tucking it back into his waistcoat.

"You heading up?" John asked, pausing.

"Ah, in a short while," Mycroft replied, discreetly stretching his legs. "Thought I might try and catch Alicia before she turns in for the night."

John smiled to himself, noting the oddly shy expression on Mycroft's face in the aftermath of his words. He felt as though he had been entrusted with a state secret, and it felt strangely…good. He deposited the glasses in the dishwasher, stopping in the hallway to lean into the sitting room before he left.

"Okay, well…goodnight, Mycroft," John replied. "It's, ah…it's been good to…you know…thanks for the drink."

He started to head towards the stairs when he heard Mycroft clear his throat; instinctively, John knew it was a call for his attention.

"I, ah, I hope you don't consider yourself and your daughter to be guests here, John," he said, looking at the floor before apparently finding the ability to meet John's eye. "You will always be welcome in this home as family. You are Sherlock's brother, too, after all."

Say what you will about the Holmes brothers, John thought, but they always have the capacity to surprise.

"Thank you, Mycroft," he replied, their exchange of nods an acknowledgement of each other, like a handshake.

As John started up the stairs to his bedroom, it was with a feeling that the world had been turned on its axis – and, as he always did in these situations, he couldn't help but wonder what Mary Watson would have made of it all.


	11. Chapter 11

"Remind me why we're doing this?" Sherlock asked her, as he watched her going back and forth from the kitchen to the living room. Well, waddling, more like – who was she kidding? There was no sugar-coating it anymore.

Molly hesitated slightly, possibly because she could empathise with the bafflement and slight irritation in his tone. Inviting people over for drinks on Christmas Eve had seemed a nice idea a couple of weeks ago, but a lot could change in a fortnight when you're in your third trimester, and now all she could think about was a long soak in a bubble bath – pretty much the only thing these days that didn't make her feel like a whale.

"It will be nice to get everyone together one last time," she replied, carefully. She deposited another plate of canapes on Sherlock's desk, gently nudging a stack of papers and notes to one side. True to form, he skittered across the room to protect his 'filing system', placing the stack on top of his laptop.

"You're making this party sound like the final meal of a condemned man," he told her. "Or man and woman in this case. We're about to enter parenthood, Molly – it's not a death sentence."

"I didn't mean that," she replied, tutting. "It's just that I haven't seen everyone for a while, and it might be some time before life goes back to normal – if it ever goes back to normal – and I…just thought it would be nice."

It wasn't the most eloquent response she could have given.

Sherlock rounded the coffee table and intercepted her before she could get to the kitchen again, a hand gently taking her arm. Molly allowed herself to be folded into an embrace, Sherlock's other hand automatically going to her stomach.

" _You're_ nice," he said in a low whisper. "Too nice. Anyone else in your condition would gave told people to go and make their own bloody merriment on Christmas Eve."

She raised an eyebrow at him questioningly, and he responded with a tilt of the head.

"Well, _I_ would," he conceded.

"Colour me shocked," she smiled, patting him on the chest. He may have little enthusiasm for Christmas drinks, but Molly couldn't help but notice something about his evening attire…

"You're wearing it!" she said, hearing the glee in her own voice.

"Wearing what?" Sherlock replied, turning down the corners of his mouth in mock confusion.

"You _know_ what!" Molly grinned, reaching out to toy with the top button of the item of clothing in question.

"Oh, you would perhaps be referring to my choice of shirt this evening?" he said, raising an eyebrow while still attempting a neutral expression.

It was, of course, the Purple Shirt of Sexy. Molly couldn't remember how it ended up with that particular designation – might have had something to do with Meena, back in the early days, not long after she and Sherlock had met. But tonight it took on a different meaning; the fact that Sherlock had chosen to wear this was, Molly knew, his (albeit strange and indirect) way of offering her his support in something he otherwise had no interest in. She felt a surge of affection towards him and a sudden desire to show it.

"Molly…" Sherlock said, when they separated from the kiss. "Do we have time…?"

Molly sniggered.

"No, we definitely do not, Sherlock," she told him, which earned her a pout in response. "Especially given how long it takes me to get dressed and undressed these days."

Sherlock smirked at her.

"Who said anything about getting undressed?"

Molly swatted him on the arm, feeling her cheeks flush slightly (how did he still have that effect on her now that she was more than eight months pregnant with his child?)

"Find a bottle opener," she told him, heading back towards the kitchen. "Otherwise we're using Billy."

Sherlock's eyes flicked towards his beloved skull on the mantelpiece and a genuine look of distress passed over his face.

"Is that why his lateral incisor is missing?" he asked. "Did someone use him to open a bottle of something?"

Molly turned and offered him her best innocent expression; she would leave that little puzzle to stew with him for a little while.

"I thought that was just Mrs Hudson dusting," he muttered.

"Mrs Hudson, Sherlock?" Molly replied, with slight disbelief. "Mrs Hudson doesn't do the dusting here anymore, in case you hadn't noticed."

She didn't actually mind cleaning, and while she refused to clear up Sherlock's childlike messes of books, papers and other ephemera, she tended to catch up with some basic hygiene maintenance any time he was auditing his Mind Palace. His contributions to housework had noticeably increased, though – without her having to resort to nagging, thank God – but she couldn't honestly say that his standards were very high. His mother had a lot to answer for.

He followed her into the kitchen and allowed her to hand him various plates, bowls and dishes to take through to the living room. Christmas dinner she was cooking from scratch (with assistance from John and Mrs Hudson), so it felt fair enough that most of this evening's refreshments were courtesy of Waitrose.

"You know…" Molly began, watching Sherlock rearranging the plates into a more pleasing configuration on the table. "You wore that shirt the night…that night when we first…"

Sherlock looked up, his expression a strange combination of pride and embarrassment.

"It was just one of a number of tactics I put into play that evening," he replied, the slightly sheepish expression remaining. "The finishing touch, if you will."

Molly rolled her eyes.

"Who would have thought that a carefully-chosen shirt could lead eight months later to my having fat ankles and constant heartburn?"

Sherlock did at least have the decency to look a little contrite. She had long ago forgiven him for his insane scheme to orchestrate her pregnancy, but it would be a while before she would let him forget.

He made his way back to the kitchen to stand behind her, wrapping his arms around what she used to laughably call her waist.

"Your ankles are perfectly lovely," he told her, dipping his mouth to the base of her neck. Molly immediately felt a series of powerful kicks from within her, strong enough for her to feel Sherlock's surprised reaction.

"Our son agrees," he added, placing his hand back on her belly. "And he says sorry for the heartburn."

"Well, our _child_ is probably going to hate us for giving them a birthday just after Christmas," Molly replied. "Bet you didn't think of that when you were plotting to knock me up?"

She felt Sherlock's snort of laughter vibrate against her neck. He had shaved since lunchtime, the rasp of his stubble replaced with a smoother glide and a heady scent of the Acqua di Parma cologne she loved so much.

"I confess that possible consequence eluded me," he replied.

They stood there for moment, Molly leaning her weight back against Sherlock's chest as she looked out across the living room. It looked lovely, it really did. Despite Sherlock's protests over a tree, she had come home during her final week at work to find him and John wrestling a very fine Norwegian spruce into submission. Or rather John was doing the wrestling (and swearing) while Sherlock directed proceedings. The tree decorations were all hers - brought over in the move along with everything else - although she'd had to enlist Sherlock's help to hang anything higher than a certain point. Molly knew Sherlock had been quietly horrified by the mish-mash of gaudy trinkets that she had lovingly accumulated over the years, and their lack of co-ordination, but he had borne it well. Although she had spotted him rearranging things when he thought she wasn't looking, hopelessly trying to achieve a better sense of symmetry.

As Molly's gaze fell on Sherlock's desk, she couldn't help but realise that this was the first time she'd seen 221B decked out for Christmas since _that_ night all those years ago. _Those_ Christmas drinks. Tottering in, laden down with gift bags, her attention absorbed completely by the man at his desk who was perversely ignoring everybody. In all honesty, it now felt as though that was a different Molly Hooper who had been ritually humiliated by a different Sherlock Holmes – but for some reason she still didn't like to think about it. She wondered whether Sherlock had given it any thought, too.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the familiar babbling of their goddaughter, who was now walking into their living room unaided, with John hovering anxiously behind her. It reminded Molly that they needed to buy stairgates, several of them.

"Look who's coming to visit us all by herself!" Molly cried, moving around the kitchen island to come and greet them. Getting down to the floor without several minutes warning and a number of surfaces to hold onto was virtually impossible these days, but it was irrelevant anyway, as Rosie clearly only had eyes for the Christmas tree.

"Hi Molly; evening, Sherlock," John greeted them, setting down the bottle of wine he'd brought before bounding after Rosie. "Whoops, no you don't, young lady." He retrieved a Germanic nutcracker decoration from his daughter's mouth, handing it to Molly to re-hang on the tree.

"Probably a good thing we're sharing your tree this year," he commented with a tight smile. "Mind you, this time next year you'll have one of your own trying to destroy the Christmas decorations."

"Yes, thank you, John," replied Sherlock. "I am aware."

"Ignore him," Molly said, hoisting Rosie into her arms. "We are delighted to have you both here."

She took a cheese straw from one of the plates on the table and once John had nodded his agreement, offered it to Rosie, who – after giving it a suspicious once-over – set to work on it. There were particular expressions her goddaughter made that would suddenly remind Molly of Mary; her eyes were John's, but the bottom half of Rosie's face was completely her mother. Molly knew this would always be a source of both comfort and sorrow to them all, and something that John must feel acutely.

"Any chance of a drink, Sherlock?" John asked, rubbing his hands together.

"Observe, John," Sherlock replied, with a sweeping gesture of his arm. "The drinks table. I believe you are familiar with the concept of 'helping yourself'."

"Ever the gracious host," John muttered, doing as he was told.

"Like I said, ignore him," Molly said, flashing a smile at Sherlock, who responded with an expression of mock offence.

Molly settled on the sofa with Rosie, pleased at an excuse to sit down and rest for a moment. Sometimes it was easier to just keep on her feet, keep plodding slowly along; it was only when she sat down that she realised how exhausted she was, and how difficult it was going to be to get up again. The front of her dress was now covered in flaky pastry from the cheese straw that Rosie had finished demolishing, but Molly didn't care; she knew it wouldn't be long before Rosie would be running around constantly, barely pausing long enough to sit on someone's – on her – knee.

"Meow?" Rosie said hopefully, twisting around to face Molly.

Molly smiled. Poor Toby was permanently on edge these days, always on the lookout for the small human who now seemed to be mobile and more of a threat.

"Toby's having a sleep, Rosie, sweetheart" Molly told her. "We'll not disturb him. I'm sure you can see him tomorrow."

In truth, she had no idea where Toby was, but at the sight of the furniture being rearranged earlier, he had shot out of the living room and gone somewhere to sulk.

"He'd better not be using my second-best dressing gown as a bed again," Sherlock grumbled.

Molly saw John smirk at him, which only caused Sherlock to protest further.

"The last time he did it, I found something unexpected in the pocket."

"That was a present, Sherlock," Molly smiled. "In cat behaviour, it's a compliment."

"Yes, well, I can't imagine anyone around here would be too happy if I presented them with a dead rodent for a Christmas present."

John snorted.

"It would be a step up from anything you've ever bought me," he said. "Oh, wait a second, that's right – _because you've never bought me a Christmas present_."

"You're too hard to buy for," Sherlock retorted.

"I'm easy to buy for," John countered. "Anything in a bottle is always welcome, along with many things that are edible, and I'm also not fussy when it comes to knitwear or accessories."

"Evidently," Sherlock replied, with a raise of the eyebrows.

John looked down at his jumper and Molly tried to suppress a smile.

"This is me being festive, Sherlock," he said. "Getting into the Christmas spirit. Nice to see you've made the effort."

Molly couldn't help herself.

"Actually, he has made an effort…"

She glanced across to Sherlock, who glanced down at his shirt before giving her a slightly suggestive smile, which Molly hoped John wouldn't notice. He did look slightly baffled, but just as he looked as though he was going to demand further explanation, he instead shook his head slightly and took a big swig from the beer he was holding.

"Woo-oo!" came a familiar call, and Molly turned to see Mrs Hudson nudging her way through the half-open door, both hands full.

"Be a dear, Sherlock, and come and take this cake before I drop it on your carpet and it gets eaten by the cat," Mrs Hudson said, depositing a large Christmas cake in Sherlock's outstretched hands.

"Cake?" Rosie piped up.

"Not cake that you would like, love," John replied, smoothing down his daughter's hair as he moved to sit with her and Molly.

"Not cake that I would like either," Sherlock said, putting the cake down on the table as though it was tainted. He pulled a face. "Too much… _fruit_."

Molly rolled her eyes – honestly, it was going to be like having two children sometimes. And she was going to bet that their baby would have better manners than its father.

"Well, Mister Finicky," Mrs Hudson said, cuffing Sherlock lightly on the ear. "You'll be pleased to hear that I've made a few gingerbread men, too. I baked them for Rosie, but I expect if you ask nicely she might share them with her silly goat of a godfather."

"That's more like it!" Sherlock exclaimed, swooping in and pressing a big kiss to Mrs Hudson's cheek. Their landlady narrowed her eyes and swatted at Sherlock, but Molly could tell that she loved the attentions of her surrogate son. He could be a charmer when he wanted, that was for sure.

John sprang up to help get Mrs Hudson a drink, and Sherlock ambled over to take his place on the sofa beside Molly. Before sitting, he placed a glass of the non-alcoholic punch she'd made earlier down on the side table for her, and then gestured for Molly to hand Rosie over to him. He positioned Rosie on his knee and proceeded to break in half a gingerbread man, cramming one half into his mouth and handing the other to their goddaughter. Rosie giggled at the sight of Sherlock with a mouthful of biscuit, before tucking into her share.

Whenever anyone had questioned Sherlock's humanity, his ability to understand, feel and express 'normal' emotion, Molly had always silently reminded herself about how he was with Rosie. It was that first time, seeing Sherlock holding Rosie as a new baby, when she'd finally admitted to herself – following everything with Tom and despite yet another of Sherlock's dalliances with drugs - that she was still in love with him.

"So who else is coming tonight?" Mrs Hudson asked, taking a seat in John's old chair with her glass of sherry.

"Half of London, apparently," Sherlock replied gloomily.

"Just a few people from work," Molly said, ignoring her consulting detective. "Well, Sherlock's work mainly, I suppose – Greg's coming, and a couple of others I think. And Mike Stamford, from Bart's."

"Oh, he's the fellow who set the two of you up!" Mrs Hudson said, brightly, gesturing between Sherlock and John. Her tone changed slightly when she added, "He's got a lot to answer for."

As though on cue, there was a knock on the door downstairs and the sound of Lestrade's cheerfully brash voice announcing his arrival. A few pairs of practical work shoes thumped up the stairs, and Greg appeared in the doorway with a small crate of beer and a big smile. Donovan and Anderson followed just behind, both of looking a little more reticent and unsure than their boss.

"Molly!" Lestrade said, striding over to the sofa. "Let's get a proper look at you!"

Molly did as she was told, levering herself to her feet with a helpful shove from Sherlock, and allowing Greg to engulf her in one of his trademark hugs. Over his shoulder she could see Sherlock's slightly askance expression (he had a bizarre theory that the DI used to have a little crush on her, something which apparently still bothered him).

"You look beautiful, Molls," Lestrade grinned, putting an arm around her and squeezing her shoulder. "Can't believe you're even bigger than when I last saw you, though – what, two weeks ago? Little one can't have much more growing to do, surely?"

"I hope not," Molly replied, smiling. "According to the midwife, we're looking at somewhere north of nine pounds."

Lestrade let out a whistle.

"Hope you're waiting on her hand and foot, mate?" he said to Sherlock, emphasizing his point with his finger.

"Endeavouring to," Sherlock replied.

"Good man," Greg grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. Apparently, that wasn't enough, though, because with a heartfelt "Come here!", Lestrade hauled Sherlock off the sofa – Rosie and all – and hugged him, too. Molly bit her lip to prevent a peal of laughter escaping at the sight of Sherlock resigning himself to Lestrade's manly embrace.

"Do I get one?" John enquired mildly from across the room.

Greg laughed.

"Need a couple of these in me first," he replied, picking up the crate of beer again. "Then there'll be no stopping me. Martha, you've better watch out, 'cause I've clocked that mistletoe above the door."

Mrs Hudson laughed, holding up her drink in a toast.

"I'm counting on it," she told him, with a twinkle.

The mistletoe had been bought on impulse when Molly had been walking through the Christmas market near the park. Sherlock had groused about 'the perpetuation of stupid Christmas traditions', but he hadn't complained about the regularity with which they were putting it to use – not that either of them needed much excuse.

John encouraged Donovan and Anderson into the room (Molly was thankful for his natural hosting abilities), taking their coats and putting drinks into their hands.

"Just the one for them!" Greg called. "They're both on the nine till seven shift."

"Yeah, thanks, boss," Donovan replied, accepting a bottle of beer. "Happy Christmas to you, too."

Like any social event where so many different relationship dynamics existed, it took a little while for everyone to relax, and Molly noticed that Sherlock chose to devote much of his attention to entertaining Rosie. She recognised, too, that conversation was somehow less awkward with a small child present, and Sherlock was grateful for Rosie's companionship.

Mike arrived a little while later and easily slotted into proceedings, despite only a passing acquaintance with the guests from the Met. Molly found she was grateful for the opportunity to 'talk shop' with Mike, realising how much she already missed the daily surprises and intrigues of the path lab and morgue at Bart's. A year seemed like a long time to be away from it all, but it wasn't as though she'd be short of things to do in that time – and nothing was more important than the adventure she and Sherlock were about to embark on.

Being heavily pregnant, and largely consigned to the sofa, gave Molly a good vantage point from which to observe everyone. It was interesting, for instance, to see how Philip Anderson behaved in their home – the last time he'd been there, as Molly understood it, was when he had been part of a 'drugs bust', years ago. Molly had barely been acquainted with him in those days – mostly through exchanging crime scene information – but he now seemed like a completely different man. Optimistic where he used to seem bitter, upbeat where he used to fall back on sarcasm. He had gone from loathing Sherlock to being utterly in awe of him, and there was arguably nobody in the room who seemed happier about Sherlock's relationship status and impending fatherhood than Philip Anderson. Something that Sherlock evidently found a little disconcerting.

"Anderson here thinks he deserves some special recognition," Greg said, coming to stand with his deputies. "Reckons he saw this all coming before any of the rest of us."

"Well, I like to think I'm a keen observer of human behaviour," Anderson replied, with an attempt at modesty.

"Maybe you should be adding Philip to the list of possible baby names," John called from across the room. "I think Hamish Philip has a nice ring to it, eh, Sherlock?"

Molly saw Sherlock fire a warning look across to his best friend. The fact was, she and Sherlock hadn't actually settled on names yet; it was a conversation topic that bubbled to the surface every so often, but one that they kept seeming to defer. Couldn't do that for very much longer.

Mrs Hudson came to join her on the sofa, tiring, she said, of listening to John and Greg talk about old cases, but not before Greg had planted the promised smacker on her cheek.

"I'm collecting the set," she explained, arranging herself next to Molly and patting her knee. "Although yours gives the best kisses, dear," she added, nodding towards Sherlock. "Not that I need to tell you that."

"Dunno what you've done to him, Molly," Sally Donovan said, coming to perch on the opposite arm of the sofa. "He seems almost…normal."

Molly was about to answer - wondering how she could do this amicably without letting her instincts for defending Sherlock tip into a tone not compatible with a Christmas party - when Sherlock plonked himself down on the other side of her. His arm went around her shoulder, one leg crossing over the other.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that, Donovan," he said, with the raise of the eyebrows. "I'm just very lucky that Molly has a thing for freaks."

The two of them eyeballed each other for a moment in a standoff before Sally broke into a smile and a shake of the head.

"Too right you're lucky," she replied, before taking a sip of her beer. When she looked up again, she caught his eye. "We miss you messing up our crime scenes," she added with a wink. "Hope you won't stay away _too_ long."

"Aahh, I never knew you cared, Sally," Sherlock replied, recognizing his momentary advantage. "Starting to wonder if your animosity towards me for all those years was just misdirected sexual tension."

"Always take it too far, don't you?" she grinned.

"Don't like to disappoint."

"Freak."

"Well, you can think of me when you're enjoying your Christmas Eve late shift," Sherlock smiled.

Despite their exchange, Molly definitely felt there was a friendly ceasefire in place, and she was proud of Sherlock's ability to build bridges in his own, inimitable way. Sally, she knew, had never really recovered from the role she played – however small – in Sherlock's downfall, before his jump from the roof of Bart's. The doubts she'd had, the long-held prejudice. Donovan would never directly ask for forgiveness like Greg or Anderson, but Sherlock had found a way to put her at ease and assure her it was all in the past.

John wandered over to them, holding Rosie on his hip. She was rubbing her eyes and frowning.

"My daughter's saying her goodbyes now," he said, crouching down with her. "Think she's had enough."

"Can't say I blame her," Sherlock sighed. Molly elbowed him in the ribs before shifting far enough forward on the sofa to kiss Rosie goodnight.

"Just one more sleep left, sweetheart," Molly said. "Big day tomorrow!"

"Every day is a big day when you're Rosamund's age," Sherlock said, placing a kiss on his goddaughter's temple.

"Shush, you," Molly told him. "You'll be more excited than she will about her presents."

"My point precisely."

As she sat back on the sofa, Molly winced slightly, and immediately knew it wouldn't go unnoticed by John in both his capacity friend and doctor.

"You okay, Molly?"

She nodded, rubbing at her belly where the pain had erupted, and where it now seemed to be settling. She had definitely reached the point in this pregnancy where she just wanted it to be over.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just this weird twinge. Probably indigestion – or maybe I've pulled something."

She could feel Sherlock's anxiety without looking at him, which was why she hadn't bothered mentioning something so minor. God, if she told him about every single ache and pain and twinge and cramp, there'd never be an end to it.

"What kind of twinge?" John insisted.

"More like an ache, really," she told him. "Like a band across my middle. It's not severe – just comes on every so often. It's already settling down."

"How long?" he asked, frowning, now definitively in doctor mode.

"I dunno. A couple of days?"

"Feel okay otherwise? Baby still as active?"

"Mm-hm. Really, I'm not concerned. But thank you."

John looked at her for a long moment, and it seemed he was on the verge of saying something further when Rosie started to grizzle and pull on his collar.

"Go," Molly encouraged him. "Get Rosie down. She's exhausted."

He nodded slowly.

"Okay," he said. "But call the midwifery team at Bart's if it continues. Doesn't matter that it's Christmas."

"Yeah, definitely," she agreed.

"I'll see that she does," Sherlock added, and she noted the questioning and concern on his face when her gaze met his.

"I'm fine, Sherlock," she assured him, already wishing that she'd managed to suppress that wince. He would spend the rest of the night worrying, probably Googling her symptoms and presenting her with his findings in order to cross-check. She placed a hand on his knee and squeezed it slightly to reassure him.

John had only been gone from the room for a few moments before he was back in again, calling across to Sherlock.

"There's some bloke down here with a van, Sherlock," he said. "Says he's got a delivery for you."

Molly looked at Sherlock and observed that a delivery at eight o'clock on Christmas Eve didn't seem like a surprise to him. She caught an expression pass over his face (excitement?) before he adopted a more neutral demeanor, clearing his throat.

"Ah, good, yes," he replied, striding across the room to follow a puzzled-looking John out of the door.

"What's that about?" Greg asked with a frown. "Is he having bodies sent directly here these days, now that you're not down at the morgue?"

Molly shrugged to indicate that she had no idea. But at least it had distracted him from the previous conversation with John. As Mrs Hudson engaged her in conversation again, she could hear movement out in the hallway and landing, but not enough to figure out what was going on – and when Sherlock entered the room ten minutes later, he wasn't giving anything away.

John returned shortly after that, carrying the baby monitor, and instantly beckoned Mrs Hudson across to him.

"Mrs H, I haven't got you under the mistletoe yet," he called.

Mrs Hudson scoffed.

"If you're making me get up from this lovely comfortable sofa, John Watson, you'd better make sure it's worth my while!"

Instead, John detached the plant from the door lintel and brought it across to the sofa with him, leaning down to press a kiss to their landlady's cheek, followed by an affectionate hug.

"Anyone else while I'm on a roll?" he said, turning around and offering the room what Molly fondly recognised as his 'ladykiller' smile.

"Not likely," Donovan replied, firing him a slightly threatening look.

"Yeah, go on," Greg said with a grin. "I'm not too proud to admit I'm having a bit of a dry spell."

Instead, John crouched down in front of Molly with a smile.

"Mind if I kiss the mother of your child, Sherlock?" he asked.

"That would be Molly's decision," Sherlock replied. "Although I would strongly advise her to undertake a risk assessment first."

Molly exchanged kisses with John and was reminded once again how lucky both she and Sherlock were to have him in their lives and under the same roof. She found herself – not for the first time, either - hoping that he would find happiness again at some point when it felt right, wishing that this didn't feel like such a betrayal to Mary. It was only a momentary musing, though, as Sherlock's voice interrupted her thoughts…

"Call that a kiss, Watson?" Sherlock said, tutting. "Observe!"

A split second later, Molly found herself on the end of a very passionate, very intense kiss, which she felt from the top of her head to the tip of her toes, despite the slightly public setting. She felt Sherlock's hands cradle her face, and he tilted his head to accommodate their height difference on the sofa and to make sure she was thoroughly kissed. She just had time to skirt over his collar with her own hand before he pulled away.

Of course, a spontaneous round of applause erupted, and above it all, a whistle from Anderson at the other side of the room. Molly felt a blush creep up her neck and across her cheeks, as Sherlock smiled at her and placed a tiny kiss on the end of her nose. _Show-off._

Conversation inevitably turned to the baby; how ready they felt (not very), whether her hospital bag was packed (it was), whether Sherlock would be bringing the baby to crime scenes (still up for debate).

"They change everything," sighed Greg, leaning back in Sherlock's chair in a manner that Molly knew was probably quietly irking the man beside her. "Sleepless nights, endless nappies…and you can wave goodbye to your sex life."

"Yes, thank you," Sherlock replied. "So far this week, I've received unsolicited guidance from three taxi drivers, two checkout employees, Mrs Hudson's friend Jean, a gentleman selling The Big Issue, the reprobates behind the counter at Speedy's and nineteen people who've contacted me via the blog. As it happens, Greg, I'd prefer to take parenting advice from people who actually have the experience to back it up. As far as I'm aware, that leaves one person – who is currently unconscious."

They all glanced across to the chair next to the fireplace, where John was currently slumped, head thrown back and mouth slightly open, very deeply asleep. Molly felt a sharp pang of both sympathy and fondness, knowing how hard the man worked at his job and his parenting, let alone the energy-sapping effort that went into a friendship with Sherlock.

"All right, all right!" Lestrade replied, holding up his hands in apology. "It's time I was going anyway. Think I'd better make sure these two actually show up for their shift."

He gestured to Donovan and Anderson, who visibly sagged at the suggestion of returning to work. Molly suppressed a yawn of her own, realising that she'd need to be up again in about ten hours to make a start on Christmas dinner. Lying down was sure to help that ache across her stomach, too.

As Lestrade led his team towards the door, Mrs Hudson leapt up and made a surprisingly spry dash across the room.

"Wait there, young man!" she called, addressing Anderson, who turned around with a slight look of fear in his eyes.

"I'm not usually keen on beards, but it's my last kiss of the night, so I'll make an exception," she said, pulling Anderson down by the sleeve of his jumper and giving him a peck on the cheek. There was a ripple of laughter, and it reminded Molly once again that when she grew up, she wanted to be Mrs Hudson.

"Oo's going to wake Sleeping Beauty?" Greg asked, shrugging his coat on and thumbing in the direction of John.

"Leave that to me," Sherlock said, removing his arm from around Molly and making his way across the room. Taking a seat in his own chair opposite John, Sherlock leaned forward, steepling his fingers underneath his chin before clearing his throat.

"John," he said, in a soft voice that was contradicted immediately by what came next: "Vatican Cameos!"

"Whuh?!"

Immediately, John shot forward in his chair before clumsily scrambling to his feet, his head clearly still fugged by sleep. Sherlock looked particularly pleased with himself, watching as his friend eventually caught on. Molly struggled to contain her laughter, despite the cruelty of the situation.

"You cock!" John exclaimed, lightly shoving Sherlock in the shoulder.

"Sorry," Sherlock shrugged. "It was either that or tell you that your blog had crashed."

John straightened his clothes and tried to pull himself up to his full height, attempting to regain some dignity.

"Yeah, well, don't expect me to help you when the next real emergency crops up, you bastard," he said.

But Molly could see that his irritation would be short-lived, and before long John was wearing a grudging smile…which seemed to be turning into an altogether different smile.

"What?" Sherlock demanded, picking up on his friend's sudden change in deportment.

"Oh nothing," John replied, airily, collecting the baby monitor from the coffee table. "I've just remembered what Mrs Hudson's got you for Christmas, Sherlock."

Sherlock shot a look in the direction of their landlady, who looked slightly nonplussed.

"Oh, it's lovely, Sherlock, don't worry," she said. "It will suit you down to the ground."

" _Mrs Hudson_ ," Sherlock said, in a warning tone, but Molly knew he was on a hiding to nothing – nobody kept secrets better than Mrs Hudson.

"Just one more sleep, Sherlock," John said, brightly. "Surely even you can wait until then?"

"Looks as though I'm going to have to," he replied, grimly. "Merry Christmas - you can see yourselves out."


	12. Chapter 12

Thankfully, clearing up after the drinks was a quick and easy job, mostly involving a bin bag, a recycling box and a five-minute circuit with the vacuum cleaner. Sherlock took on the brunt of the work, insisting that Molly rest on the sofa, and she wasn't going to argue with him. The dimness of the room, the soft lights of the Christmas tree and the fact that she had a belly full of snack food meant that she was close to drifting off. Toby had sensed that the coast was clear, and had emerged from his bolt-hole to curl up on the sofa with her.

Molly was just closing her eyes when she remembered something.

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"What was that delivery earlier?" she asked. "Was it something for the lab?"

He emerged from the kitchen slowly, his shirtsleeves rolled up past his elbows.

"It was…" he began. "What I mean to say is that I was going to surprise you…but then I…I wasn't sure."

Molly frowned. They had agreed that they wouldn't be exchanging Christmas presents – it just didn't matter enough to either of them – but now she wondered whether he'd backed out of their agreement.

"Should I…do you want me to show you?" he asked, tentatively.

Moments later, she was being led up the stairs to the second floor and to the doorway of the baby's room. Sherlock held her hand, and she could feel a mixture of hesitation and excitement in his touch. He pushed open the door (ordinarily kept closed to keep Toby out) and gestured for her to go ahead of him.

There, against the nearest wall, was a cot. Not just any cot, though, she could see that immediately – it was obviously hand-made, ornately carved, and clearly some sort of antique. Molly heard herself gasp, and she groped for Sherlock's hand. She would have settled for something from one of the big department stores, but she knew she had made a baby with a perfectionist who was on a quest.

"Sherlock, it's…" she began, trying to organise her thoughts. "It's…I've never seen anything like it. It's incredible."

"You like it?"

His expression was boyish, hopeful, expectant. Was he expecting a different response?

"How could I not?"

He slowly ran his fingers along one of the sides.

"It…it used to be mine," he said.

Molly looked at him, took in the odd shyness in his eyes.

"Well, not just mine," he continued. "It was a family piece. _Is_ a family piece."

He took Molly's wrist and led her to one of the short ends of the cot, where there was a wide wooden panel. As she looked, she realised that there were letters carved into it, arranged one above the other. Initials. Her eyes immediately settled on 'W.S.S.H'.

"That's you," she said softly.

"It was my grandmother's cot originally," he replied, nodding. "Then my mother's – that's her, there."

Sherlock's mother's initials were followed by a set Molly didn't immediately recognize: 'A.M.E.H'. Then it occurred to her?

"Mycroft?"

"Alexander Mycroft Edmund Holmes," he confirmed. "E.E.G.H is my sister. Emily Eurus Grace."

Molly allowed her fingers to trace over the wood.

"My mother did the carving," Sherlock continued. "She can do most things when she sets her mind to it. She's like that, in case you hadn't noticed."

Molly smiled: _oh, how she knew it._ But then something occurred to her.

"But…why wasn't it destroyed in the fire?"

Sherlock led her to the armchair they had installed in the baby's room, pulling her down to sit on his lap. His arms wound around her waist and he rested his chin on her shoulder.

"I'd assumed it had been," he said eventually. "The fire took everything with it. Everything. But then my mother mentioned it several weeks ago, not long after their unexpected visit here. The cot wasn't in the house at the time of the fire because she'd lent it to a cousin; she never asked for it back, never wanted to see it again. But I think she wanted to give me the option."

"Your mother's cousin still had it?"

Sherlock nodded, his right hand coming to rest on her bump.

"Mmm. My mother had lost contact, but Mycroft tracked her down. They'd kept the cot in an attic, never sure what to do with it. I…I had it restored. It's been sanded down, re-varnished, had a couple of parts replaced. I wanted to be sure, too, that it would be safe…for our baby."

Molly felt her chest swell with love for this wonderful, sensitive, considerate man with whom she was somehow lucky enough to share a life and a future.

"I'm having a new mattress custom-made," he added, when she didn't immediately respond. "One that complies to present-day safety standards. Should be ready the week after Christmas, but I know we won't need the cot until he outgrows Rosie's old crib, so…"

Molly silenced him with a kiss.

"It's perfect," she whispered. "You're perfect."

"I'm really not," he replied, with a slight snort.

"To me. For me. For our baby."

He allowed himself to be kissed again, closing his eyes for a moment as Molly dragged her fingers through his hair.

"Sherlock," she said. "Why were you worried? I mean, you said you weren't sure."

He opened his eyes again, swallowing, throwing a glance in the direction of the cot.

"I didn't know how you'd feel," he began. "I know you're not remotely superstitious, but I was painfully aware that the last name on this cot…"

"Was Eurus?" Molly said, completing his thought.

He nodded.

"I don't care," she told him, brushing his curls away from his forehead. "This is your family, your history, and I want our child to be part of that, to understand everything when the time comes. I don't want to hide anything. This…it's the future as well as the past, Sherlock. And besides, who knows what brilliant things our child will go on to accomplish?"

"Very brilliant things," Sherlock replied, with a smile.

"And you've made your mark on it," Molly added. "It's a fresh start. And when we add our baby's initials, it really will be a new beginning."

Sherlock inhaled deeply, looked at her intensely.

"Thank you," he said.

"For what?"

"For everything, really," he replied, with a lopsided smile. "For being Molly Hooper."

She laughed.

"Not something I can easily get out of," she said.

He looked thoughtful, but didn't speak again.

"I thought tonight was nice," Molly ventured, joining her hands around his neck.

"Mm."

"Much better than the last Christmas drinks I came to here."

There, she'd said it. It had to be said. As she expected, Sherlock's head snapped up and he looked at her with something approaching alarm in his eyes. Then alarm was replaced by shame.

"Molly, I…"

"S'okay, Sherlock. It was a long time ago."

He took another deep breath, looked into her eyes.

"That night changed my opinion of you," he told her.

"Oh god," she replied, unable to keep from cringing. Suddenly, she was back in that uncomfortable black dress, in those earrings that didn't suit her, with that lipstick that was much brighter than anything she usually wore.

"No, in a good way," he said, taking her hand. "Because I saw what you were capable of, and…it humbled me. My unforgivable deconstruction of you was motivated by something I was unwilling to admit to myself – it was jealousy. I…I was aware that perhaps you had been attracted to me on a superficial level – that happens now and again – but I believed that you had moved on."

"Why would you think-?"

"Because that night I deduced you correctly – I knew you had a serious, deeply-felt attachment to someone, but it didn't occur to me for one second that the object of those feelings, that love, could be me. I wasn't deserving of that, not from anyone, and especially not from you."

"Sherlock…"

"So when the truth dawned on me…I knew I had greatly underestimated you. If you were capable of having those feelings for _me_ , it meant you were truly incredible. And I knew, too, that I never wanted to lose that; I needed to make myself worthy of your esteem, whatever the future held."

He paused, the pad of his thumb stroking the back of her hand.

"I knew I should challenge myself as to why I was even jealous in the first place," he continued. "But I couldn't bring myself. Not then."

Molly smiled. She knew she would never truly forget the mortification she felt that evening, but it was clearly a watershed moment for them both – and who knows, perhaps it would be a funny story to tell their child in future years (although she thought she'd probably leave out the bit about the pornographic text alert).

Sherlock leaned forward, nuzzling his nose into her hair in the way that seemed to vibrate through her whole body.

"I hope it goes without saying that I think your breasts are magnificent," he murmured. "Your mouth, too, but I was particularly ashamed of the way I insulted two of my now-favourite things."

Molly giggled.

"Well, you should probably make the most of them, because once this baby is born I think they're going to be a bit busy for a while."

Sherlock sat back and pouted, as though someone was threatening to take away his toys (not too far from the truth).

"Can we go to bed?" he whispered in his deepest baritone, knowing full well that just the sound of it did ridiculous things to her insides.

"Um, I'm actually pretty tired, Sherlock," she told him, feeling the fatigue lying heavy in every part of her.

"But I wore the shirt," he replied, pouting again.

"And what, the shirt equals sex?" she asked, grinning.

"It did eight months ago."

Molly lightly swatted his arm, already feeling her resolve weakening as parts of her anatomy began to argue with her brain that, actually, she wasn't as tired as she originally thought.

"Fine," she replied, fixing his eyes with hers. "But if I'm too exhausted to get up in the morning, you're doing Christmas dinner on your own."

Sherlock frowned.

"But that means you get sex _and_ a lie-in. Hardly fair."

"I'm over eight months pregnant with your humongous child, Sherlock," Molly retorted. "So, at the moment, I get to decide what's fair around here."

Sherlock cocked his head to one side for a moment, pursing his lips.

"Point taken," he conceded. "Now if you don't mind, this shirt needs a decent swansong before – as Greg so kindly put it – we wave goodbye to our sex life."

And with that, Molly yelped with surprise and alarm as Sherlock managed to stand up with her in his arms, striding with impressive balance and obvious single-mindedness towards the hallway. He was clearly determined for one last hurrah, and Molly had to admit that she had every intention of doing the same.


	13. Chapter 13

He was already halfway across the bed before he properly woke up. Scrambling, digging blindly, searching wildly for something, the identity of which immediately evaporated when he became fully conscious. His heart was thundering in his chest, as though he was on amphetamines, and his t-shirt was so sweat-soaked that he had to peel it away from his skin to allow some air to get to it. His first thought, as always, was Molly, and somehow she had managed to sleep through this most recent night-terror of his. At least that's something.

She was facing away from him, and Sherlock carefully lent over her body so that he could witness for himself the rise and fall of her chest. Despite knowing that he really was running the risk of waking – and then worrying – her, he very gently placed his hand on her belly, barely making contact, but it was enough to reassure him. They were both there; they were both safe.

As silently as he could, he dragged his t-shirt over his head and tiptoed across to the chest of drawers to find another one. He could actually smell the fear in his damp clothes. Once changed, he gingerly lowered himself back onto the bed and inched across to Molly, so he could wrap himself around her again. He would never grow tired of – or stop being delighted by – the way her body fitted so easily with his, whether in pleasure or in comfort.

The selfish part of him hoped she might wake up. He didn't need to have a long, involved conversation about his nightmare, but her reassurance, her touch, the way she would look at him and murmur sleepy words of comfort…

But Molly needed any sleep she could get at the moment. No position seemed to be comfortable for any length of time, or else she was too hot, or the baby would decide to use Molly's down-time to start having a dance party for one. So, Sherlock knew, his own fleeting insecurities and needs would have to wait.

But he was awake now. Wide awake. And if he continued to lie there, his brain would start to revisit everything it had inflicted on him during the night, to replay those images. He could deal with these things during his waking hours – and it _was_ , gradually, getting better – but everything was somehow magnified during the night.

Unwinding himself from Molly's sleeping form, he placed a butterfly kiss on her temple before getting out of bed and looking for his dressing gown. She made a soft, unintelligible noise in her sleep (she had refused to believe she talked in her sleep until he recorded her with his phone one night), and it prompted Sherlock to smile despite himself. Despite what he had seen in his nightmares a few minutes earlier.

As he stood there in the bathroom, answering the inevitable call of nature, he heard the sound of the old pipes clanking and a toilet flushing. He wasn't alone in the night after all.

Once his hands were washed, he pulled his phone out of his dressing gown pocket and tapped out a text.

 **You're awake - SH**

He had reached the living room before the reply came through.

 **No I'm not – JW**

Sherlock smiled to himself.

 **Heard you in the bathroom. Apparently, our bladders are in sync – SH**

He padded over to his chair where Toby was once again taking liberties. Sherlock expected the cat to sense his presence and scarper – isn't that what cats did? – but instead Toby opened one eye and gave the cat equivalent of the evil eye. Sherlock took a newspaper from the coffee table and flicked it in Toby's direction, which seemed to do the trick.

 **Charming. How do you know it wasn't Mrs H? – JW**

Sherlock snorted - John wasn't even trying with this one.

 **She has an old-fashioned high cistern and pull-chain. Yours is a modern, close coupled one with push-button mechanism. Completely different sound – SH**

A short pause.

 **So glad I asked – JW**

 **Also, the sound of a man urinating in a standing position is easily distinguishable from someone carrying out the same activity seated – SH**

 **Wonderful, thanks for that – JW**

Sherlock tapped his foot as he waited. He appreciated that John had probably only been awake for a few minutes, but this was sluggish even by his standards.

 **Do you want to come down? You can tell me more about the varying sounds of people pissing – JW**

Sherlock grinned and propelled himself from his chair. Remembering his commitment to always tell Molly where he was, he dashed off a quick note on the back of one of the builders' invoices and slipped it onto the bedside table next to her.

The door to 221C was open when Sherlock reached the ground floor, and he soon found John nursing in the small, modern kitchen, wearing his striped pyjamas and towelling robe. His hair was standing up on end in several places and he had the look of a man who may have had one alcoholic beverage too many the night before. He was also nursing a cup of tea, and gestured to the counter where he'd left one for Sherlock.

"You look ghastly," Sherlock commented, taking a sip from the mug.

"It's 3am, Sherlock. I'm not usually awake to check."

"Hmm," Sherlock nodded. "Why _are_ you awake?"

John's mouth flattened into a line and he shrugged.

"Dunno. It just happens sometimes. Even on Christmas Day apparently – well, Boxing Day, I guess."

"Well, you did eat rather a lot of cheese yesterday, so perhaps that's not surprising."

John rolled his eyes.

"Yeah. I've also learnt my lesson about trying to match Mrs Hudson drink for drink," he replied, rubbing the heel of his hand into his eye. "Really nice day, though. She and Molly did a great job."

Sherlock nodded in agreement. As Christmas Days went, this one had been one of the better ones – in fact, really, there was no competition. His parents had been dealt with by mid-morning thanks to a slightly torturous Skype call (he was aware that this wouldn't suffice next year, when there was a grandchild to be visited), and then they were free to enjoy a relatively relaxed day. Lestrade had shown up around midday, then presents were exchanged (the majority of which were for Rosie), and lunch assembled by Molly and Mrs Hudson. Sherlock tried to make himself as useful as possible, although he got the feeling that the most useful thing he could do was to get out of the way.

"So why are _you_ awake?" John asked. "Nightmares about that Christmas jumper Mrs Hudson bought you?"

A little shiver of revulsion passed through Sherlock's body as he thought about the offending garment in question. He still couldn't tell whether Mrs Hudson had intended it as a genuine gift, or whether she just enjoyed seeing him suffer. Either way, both John and Lestrade had enjoyed seeing him suffer, when Mrs Hudson insisted on him putting the jumper on after dinner "just to see if it fits" (which, alas, it did).

Sherlock thought about lying to John, or perhaps evading his question; it could be easily done. But they both knew he was down in 221C for more than just a meeting of the Baker Street Insomniacs.

"Not all nightmares are related to Mrs Hudson's choice of knitwear," he blinked, keeping his eyes on the steam rising from the mug.

When he dared to raise his eyes, John was nodding, perhaps surprised at how easy it had been to lever this semi-confession from him.

"Come on," John said, pushing himself away from the kitchen counter and leading the way through to the living room. Sherlock followed, taking a seat at the opposite end of the sofa from his friend.

"I'd say we could watch some crap telly," John continued. "But we might wake Rosie. So it looks as though you're going to have to tell me about these nightmares."

"Really? There isn't a third option? I see your bookshelves are lacking a proper system of categorization."

"Sherlock."

"Could be why you can't sleep, John."

John leaned forward, bracing his hands on his knees.

"Look, I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours," he said, with a wry smile.

And then Sherlock felt a pang of guilt at his own self-absorption. How had he failed to recognize that John was the last person with whom he should be discussing his nightmares? John, whose grief had been so acute and paralysing that Sherlock was convinced – had the tables been turned – it would have finished him.

"It's…it's not always the same thing," Sherlock began, his throat suddenly feeling dry. "Sometimes there isn't even a narrative, just snatches, glimpses."

"Sherrinford?"

"Not always, but sometimes," Sherlock nodded. "I'll find myself back there, but something is always different – Eurus has changed the game again. But every decision I make results in the same outcome…"

"Molly…"

Sherlock nodded again, squeezing his eyes shut.

"I can't save her. Sometimes her flat really is rigged to explode and Eurus makes good on her promise. Sometimes Molly won't say the words, she refuses, and I am forced to watch the consequences play out. And the coffin is always there. I'll find I can't destroy it, or else I'll find myself trying to dig it out of the ground with my bare hands, knowing Molly is in there and she has mere seconds left to live. Sometimes...sometimes the baby is there, too, John."

Although he can't meet John's eye, he can see his friend's head shake in sympathy.

"Mate..."

John's preferred term of endearment usually makes him cringe a little, but this time he doesn't really hear it.

"I can hear the baby crying. Sometimes it's crying in the coffin, or else I'm back in my childhood home, and I can hear it crying in a room somewhere, but I can't find it. I try every door, everywhere, and while the crying intensifies, I can never get any closer to it. But...but those are nothing compared to the other dream, the one I had again tonight...the one where there is no baby."

His head dropped into his hands and he raked his fingers through his hair, eyes firmly fixed on the grey and blue flecks of the carpet.

"Everything seems normal at the start of it; I'm at home, upstairs, with Molly, and I feel happy, and she looks happy, but when I ask about the baby she just looks at me as though she doesn't understand. She asks me what I'm talking about, and then I realise she isn't pregnant. And what's more, when I go to touch her she moves away, she looks hurt…and I realise we're not…together."

He heard the sound of the ceramic mug being set down on the coffee table.

"Have you talked to Molly about this?" John asked, carefully.

Sherlock sat back, closing his eyes.

"Not in detail," he replied. "I…I don't want to burden her."

John sniffed.

"I don't think she'd see it that way."

"She needs to focus on herself, on the baby. She's happy, and I want to keep it that way – god knows I've done enough in the past to make her _unhappy_."

"You're right, Molly does need to focus on the baby," John replied. "But if you don't deal with this, Sherlock, if you don't share this stuff with her, she's going to be dealing with a blubbering emotional car-wreck as well as a new baby. She will need you to be strong, yes, but you can draw on hers, too – that's how it works. She's always been there for you, Sherlock, had the measure of you long before I did – and if I know Molly, she'll already have suspicions. Nothing would make her happier than for you to tell her the stuff that you've just told me."

Sherlock snorted.

"Has it made _you_ happier?"

He expected some kind of glib comeback to his glib question, but instead there was a considered pause.

"Yeah, actually, it has," John replied. "Because it reassures me that you're working through this, and that you now don't see talking about this stuff as an admission of weakness. I actually feel flattered, Sherlock."

Sherlock glanced up, suspicious of his friend's solemn tone.

"'Course, I'd prefer it if you didn't choose the middle of the bloody night to decide to bare your soul to me, but I'll work with what I'm given."

Despite himself, Sherlock felt the corners of his mouth drag into a smile. He reached across for his mug of tea.

"At least I don't have nightmares about my fictional family dog anymore," he said with a wry laugh. "That particular trauma has at least been laid to rest. Sort of."

He couldn't say with complete faithfulness that he hadn't at times been woken from his rest instead by flashes of his boyhood friend, the bottomless depths of that concealed well, the haunting lilt of his sister's cryptic lullaby. But somehow he could reconcile himself with those, banish them when the daylight came; Victor Trevor was now laid to rest - rightfully reclaimed by his family - and the mystery of Eurus' hideous riddle was a mystery no longer (even though he could still barely comprehend the homicidal logic behind her childhood actions).

But Molly – Molly was still very much in the present; Molly was the promise of his future.

"It gets easier," John said, eventually. "When someone first told me that, I came close to punching them. But I suppose clichés exist for a reason."

Sherlock swallowed. He opened his mouth to speak, then stopped himself. Then surged forward anyhow.

"Do you still…with Mary?"

John drew in his lips, his eyebrows pulling into a frown as he considered it.

"Yeah…sometimes. But then sometimes I dream about her and it doesn't end with her blood all over my hands – sometimes they're just dreams about her…about us. Memories, but also things that never happened – or that happened but in reality she wasn't there for them."

Sherlock could see his hands clasp more tightly around the mug, his knuckles white with the tension.

"In some ways, those ones are worse than the nightmares," he said, his voice barely rising above a whisper. "Who knows, perhaps one day I'll find them comforting? My new therapist seems to think so, anyway."

"Hope you gave _that_ therapist a thorough background check?" Sherlock asked, grimly.

John snorted, his shoulders heaving.

"Yeah. Your brother's surprisingly helpful with that kind of thing," he replied.

They were silent again for a moment.

"What about you?" John asked. "I heard you tried therapy a while back. Do you think it might help you now?"

Sherlock thought back to that one, stilted, awkward session, where he'd been uncooperative, refusing to engage as he knew he was expected to (as he'd been expected to in the many iterations of therapy and counselling he'd been subjected to as a traumatised child and a self-destructing young man). He still couldn't remember why he agreed to go, although he felt that Molly might have had something to do with it – either directly or indirectly. Therapy would have been the sensible approach, but even at that point he was already incubating thoughts about another way to enact Mary's wishes to save her husband.

"I'd…I'd like to give it more time," he replied, eventually. He was thinking about the tentative connection he was slowly forging with his sister, the bridges that were gradually being reconstructed with his parents. Talking to Molly – being _with_ Molly – was usually the salve he needed soothe his damaged psyche, but he also knew that he never wanted her to be a crutch for him.

"But…I might consider it. At some point," he added.

"Well it would be nice at some point if at least _one_ of us wasn't suffering from PTSD," John said, and Sherlock barked with laughter, his friend immediately joining in.

"And you do realise, Sherlock, that very soon you'll probably be too tired to have nightmares," he added. "Or if you do, you'll be having nightmares about leaving your baby in a taxi, or running out of nappies in the middle of the night."

Sherlock smiled – if his worries were really going to be that much simpler, then he would probably be fine (although he wasn't about to tell John that both of those examples sounded like things he might plausibly do).

"It's going to change everything…isn't it?" he began, realising he was evoking the very words spoken by Lestrade two nights ago, and which he'd flippantly dismissed.

"Yeah," John agreed. "But that's no bad thing. We're due a change – and I think we've earned the right to a good one."

John reached over and patted Sherlock's knee.

"I am _so_ happy for you, mate, and so excited – for both you and Molly," he said, with an easy affection that caused an immediate lump to form in Sherlock's throat. " _This_ is a life worth living, Sherlock. This. Everything else is just window dressing – a distraction."

Sherlock nodded, his mind drifting back upstairs to the beautiful pathologist (hopefully still) asleep in his bed, about the long and ridiculously circuitous path that had eventually led them to this point. Despite all the 'what ifs', all the other possible choices he could have made along the way, he had come to realise that the Sherlock Holmes who met Molly Hooper at Bart's morgue all those years ago would not have been able to offer her the things he now believed he could.

Even so…

"You'll still tell me when I do something a Bit Not Good, won't you, John?"

John grinned.

"It would be a dereliction of my duties if I didn't."

"Good. Because I think I might need that."

John reached over and took Sherlock's empty mug before getting to his feet. Sherlock followed suit, realising then that a heavy lethargy was starting to take hold of him.

"I've been meaning to ask," John said, pausing at the doorway to the kitchen. "How are those to-do lists of yours coming along? I only ask because we're running out of days in the year, and in case I've missed something, I'm pretty sure you haven't ticked everything off yet."

Sherlock sighed, knowing exactly what his friend was getting at.

"Well, I'm still off the cigs," he replied, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown. "Other things…I'm still…getting around to. But I will."

John ran a hand through his hair and didn't make any attempt to stifle the huge yawn that overtook him.

"Don't spend too long getting around to it, Sherlock," he said, setting the mugs down on the sideboard. "I'd like to be young enough to still be able to stand for my Best Man's speech."

"That's presumptuous," Sherlock snorted. "I'd thought that perhaps I'd ask Gavin. He being a man and quite good at it."

"Cock," John smiled.

Sherlock smirked back at him; he didn't really have the right to deny it.

"Thanks for the tea," he said, heading for the front door.

"Any time," John replied, padding back towards his bedroom. "Well, obviously I don't mean 'any time', because the lack of sleep would probably kill me, but…you know…when our bladders happen to be in sync again."

"Understood," Sherlock said, hand now resting on the door handle.

He quietly closed the front door behind him, quickening his pace as he made his way through the unheated hallway and up the stairs. A quick peek into the living room revealed that the blasted cat was back in his chair again, but – with more satisfaction than he should probably be feeling – Sherlock reminded himself that Toby had had to make way for _him_ in Molly's bed. Or rather his bed. For God's sake, he was now so tired he was thinking about a cat as a romantic rival.

Easing open the bedroom door, he saw that Molly was still asleep. Quietly, he pulled back the covers and lowered himself onto the mattress, immediately sliding his way across the bed until he could feel the warmth that emanated from her body. As always, he folded himself around her, feeling the familiar curve of her backside against his lap, her narrow back against his chest. As his arms went around her, seeking somewhere on her bump to rest his hands, Sherlock heard Molly murmur.

"Y'okay?"

He pressed a kiss to her cheek, inhaling moisturiser and lemon shampoo.

"Mm-hm."

"Your legs are cold," she mumbled. There was something very endearing about her half-asleep state.

"Sorry," he replied. "Couldn't sleep. Think I can now, though."

She twisted around slightly, or attempted to. Her eyes were fully open now.

"D'you want to tell me about it?"

"Tomorrow," he nodded, realizing that he meant it, that it wasn't a placation. He added more gently, "Go back to sleep, Molly."

"'kay, if you're sure," she said, suppressing a yawn. "But I _am_ going to make you tell me in the morning."

He nodded, re-adjusting his embrace and feeling her fingers thread through his own over her stomach. It was still hard to believe that this was his life, that he had this to look forward to at the beginning and end of every single day.

"Love you, Sherlock," Molly murmured, right on the edge of sleep.

That was the other wonderful thing – he never grew tired of hearing those words from her lips, and the sound of his own voice repeating them back. A promise, a benediction, a perfectly-formed miracle.

"I love you, Molly," he said, breathing deeply.

Because John was right – this was it, and everything else was a distraction.


	14. Chapter 14

Toby wound around her feet while she made one final check on her makeup in the hallway mirror, as though pleading with her to stay and keep him company. The taxi had turned up early and Molly could hear the engine turning over as she applied some eyeshadow – it wasn't as thought there was a strict dress code, but afternoon tea at Claridge's probably deserved a little bit of effort. She was also wearing the only vaguely dressy maternity dress she owned; it was the same one she'd worn for Christmas Day, but she _definitely_ wasn't going to buy anything new at the thirty-seven week stage. A different cardigan and accessories would have to do.

"Sorry, Tobes, but you're on your own," she muttered. "We won't be long. I'll bring you a can of that posh tuna. Promise."

Her cat, she knew, had got used to constant company. Before she moved in with Sherlock – and when she was at work full-time doing long shifts at the hospital – Toby had been a free agent, spending all day out and about, and coming and going as he pleased. Now he was spoilt. If Molly wasn't around, he'd slink down to try his luck with Mrs Hudson – or get his feline kicks through antagonising Sherlock (he wasn't yet desperate enough to seek company in 221C – Rosie's interest in him was still a bit too 'hands-on').

"Molly, dear!"

Mrs Hudson's voice chimed up the stairwell.

"I'm coming!" she called, slotting her make-up pouch back into her handbag. She was actually looking forward to making use of the huge changing-bag-cum-handbag that Meena and some of the others had given her as a leaving present – she seemed to carry half of her life around with her these days.

"Don't hurry, love," her landlady called back. "Not in your condition. We can't have you suffering any mishaps on these awful stairs."

Molly wound her scarf around her neck and stuffed her hair into her hat (she really should make an appointment for a haircut soon – she couldn't imagine fitting that around a new baby would be easy).

Before she knew it, Mrs Hudson was coming up the stairs towards her, dressed as though she was ready for a night on the town.

"Oh, you didn't have to come up," Molly told her, feeling both guilty and ridiculous that she apparently needed assistance from a woman of nearly eighty.

"It's fine," Mrs Hudson replied with a dismissive wave. "It keeps me active. Not all of us have a young man to help us do that."

Molly smiled, feeling a slight blush creep up her neck – thank God her huge scarf covered a multitude of embarrassments.

"Of course, things are probably a bit less 'active' between you two at the moment," Mrs Hudson continued, pausing to check her own reflection in the hall mirror. "But you'll get back to it soon enough. You might just have to take advantage of whatever time you get – be spontaneous, you know?"

Oh god. Sex advice from Mrs Hudson. Molly didn't doubt her landlady's credentials when it came to dishing out relationship advice – after all, there was still no shortage of 'gentlemen callers' at 221A, and kudos to Mrs Hudson for that – but it still felt deeply mortifying. Almost as bad as if Sherlock's mum decided to weigh in on their sex life.

"You look lovely!" Molly said, trying her best not to sound as though she was wildly changing the subject.

It seemed to work, as Mrs Hudson responded with an airy laugh and a primp of her hair.

"It's nice to have the excuse," she replied, brushing at something invisible on her smart wool coat.

The afternoon tea had been Sherlock and John's joint Christmas present to their landlady (a long-held tradition, apparently), and Mrs Hudson had wasted no time in getting booked up – surprisingly, they had been able to get a table a few days after Christmas. Nice to do something in the lull before New Year, Mrs Hudson explained. Molly was flattered to be asked along as Mrs Hudson's guest, and couldn't help but be a bit excited, too – it was a while since she'd done something truly indulgent.

Outside, the taxi driver beeped his horn.

"Oh, honestly!" Mrs Hudson cried. "What's his hurry? I'll have to tell Sherlock – he arranged for that driver especially."

Sherlock and his safety precautions again.

As Molly followed Mrs Hudson to the top of the stairs, she glanced down at the flower-patterned holdall on the floor. Should she be taking her hospital bag everywhere these days? It seemed a bit overly cautious, and she already felt laden down. As a compromise, she awkwardly got down close enough to the floor to dig out the folder containing her maternity notes, and shoved it into her handbag.

When she stood back up, she felt it again – that same stretching pain across her stomach. It had been coming and going since Christmas Eve, and both Sherlock and John had asked for an update several times. She didn't know what to tell them apart from there was a pain, but it wasn't severe. And it definitely wasn't early contractions. She'd even described the symptoms down the phone to the community midwife, who didn't sound concerned either – although suggested, of course, that if Molly was worried she should make an appointment with the team at the hospital.

Thankfully, Mrs Hudson hadn't noticed the grimace and the sharp intake of breath, as she was already halfway down the stairs and on her way to remonstrate with the taxi driver. Molly took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment, trying to recall the relaxation techniques she'd learnt at the birthing class – she counted, breathed from her diaphragm, and felt as though the pain was starting to ease.

00000000000

The Foyer at Claridge's was unlike anywhere Molly had set foot in before, so opulent that she half expected to see a room full of Mycrofts sipping tea from the jade and white china – although Sherlock's brother probably wouldn't deign to spend time anywhere that permitted access to the unwashed general public. Mrs Hudson shared none of Molly's self-consciousness, though, and was immediately in her element, thoroughly enjoying the attentions of the white-jacketed waiting staff, who made a polite fuss of her. They even brought Molly some extra cushions without being prompted, for which she wanted to weep with gratitude – she had taken to carrying a wedge pillow around with her, but a five-star hotel didn't feel like the place to whip out your extra soft-furnishings.

"Bit different from the places Frank used to bring me," Mrs Hudson told Molly, conspiratorially, across the table. "Everyone's fully dressed for a start."

Tea was served, although that wasn't as straight-forward as Molly had assumed; apparently, they had to make a selection from 24 different varieties. She had made a slightly nervous joke about 'builder's tea' being fine for her, at which the waiter had smiled with good grace. Mrs Hudson, however, had gone one step further, telling the waiter just to bring them both "a proper pot of tea; none of this herbal nonsense."

The array of delicate sandwiches, scones and cakes was nothing short of spectacular, and for once Molly was happy to use the excuse of eating for two – although it was guaranteed she would be downing a gallon of milk later to combat the heartburn.

"So where is he today?" Mrs Hudson asked, as she divided up the finger sandwiches between the two plates. "I was surprised when he told me he and John were off out; I thought he wasn't taking on any more investigations?"

Molly took a sip of tea (nothing like builder's, but still lovely and strong).

"Greg found something he thought Sherlock might be interested in," she replied. "Something to do with some old skeletal remains found in a disused part of the Tube. To be honest, he didn't seem that bothered, but I think maybe John and Greg are trying to keep him busy."

"Oh, the pre-baby jitters!" Mrs Hudson smiled, knowingly. "Yes, he's best off out from under your feet and doing something that will distract him."

"He, um, he would have stayed at home, but well, with me coming here, there didn't seem much point," Molly continued.

She never considered Sherlock to be 'under her feet', but it did seem a good idea for him to focus on something else for a while – even if that something else was just provoking Donovan and Anderson. And if he was at home alone, he'd either fight with Toby or else start annoying strangers on parenting forums (his IP address had already been blocked from a couple of the major sites, thanks to his penchant for correcting both people's parenting philosophies and their grammar).

"We can take them both a little cake for later," Mrs Hudson said. "I brought a Tupperware just in case."

Molly smiled; Mrs Hudson's lack of airs and graces – and her casual dismissal of anyone who adopted them (Mycroft being a prime example) – was always so refreshing.

What Molly, however, couldn't casually dismiss was the pain across her stomach. The relief she felt earlier had been short-lived, and now the discomfort was pretty constant – not worse, necessarily, but just persistent. Or _was_ it worse? Again, she took a breath and another sip of tea.

"So," Mrs Hudson began, an excited twinkle in her eye. "Three weeks to go! You must have the names picked out by now?"

"Um, we're getting there, I think," she replied. "It doesn't feel right to decide completely before the baby arrives, though."

"Well, of course not!" Mrs Hudson laughed. "You don't know what you're having yet!"

"Well, yes, but still…" Molly said, unsure where that sentence was going.

The truth was that a boy's name was more or less fixed in her mind now – although she still hadn't directly run it past Sherlock, choosing instead to float possible names past him and gauge his feelings via his facial expressions. A girl's name was proving more difficult; her own mum's name didn't feel quite right, and she was quietly relieved that Sherlock hadn't mentioned his own mother's name – it didn't feel as though 'Wanda' was due for a comeback yet (if ever). It was hard not to put 'Mary' somewhere in the mix, but they had to think of how that might feel for John. She'd like something quite traditional, she thought, but not too staid – maybe something that could be easily shortened if it ended up seeming ridiculous to saddle a baby with something overly formal.

It was as she was thinking about this that it struck Molly that she hadn't felt the baby kick for a while now – which was odd, considering the gymnastics it seemed so keen on performing in the past few weeks. When was it? Had she felt anything since she got up?

"Are you all right, dear?"

Molly realized she must have been asked a question that she failed to answer, and that Mrs Hudson must have noticed something in her expression.

Last night – it was last night, of course. Right after she'd got into bed, true to form, the baby had sprung into action, and she'd spent the next ten minutes meeting each solid kick (and punch) with her best attempt at a high-five. And then she'd spent the next hour wishing it would just calm down and go to sleep so that _she_ could (the sound of Sherlock's voice as he entered the bedroom had started things up again, much to his delight and her exasperation).

But since then…?

"I'm…I'm fine," she replied, hesitantly. "I just…"

She gave her abdomen a firm prod where the midwife thought the baby's bottom was, but got nothing in response. Molly felt her the pace of her heart start to pick up, a prickle of panic rising up within her.

It was fine – she was sure of it. The baby was technically full term (well, from tomorrow), so there probably wasn't much space for it to move around in there any longer.

She surreptitiously moved her teacup so that the warmth from it touched her bump, certain that the sudden change in temperature would cause a reaction. But there was nothing.

"Molly, sweetheart, you don't look fine," Mrs Hudson said, putting down her cup and cake fork. "Has something happened? You look a little pale, dear."

"I…it's been a while since the baby moved," she said, swallowing thickly. "I mean, I'm sure it's okay. I'm just used to being used as a punching bag most of the time, that's all."

She was aware that her voice had nearly cracked when she'd spoken the words, despite her efforts to sound calm and rational.

"What about that pain you told John you were having? You're not still having it are you?"

When Molly looked up and saw the concern in her friend's eyes, she knew she couldn't pretend any longer.

"It's…," she began, realizing that – oh God – she could feel tears at the corner of her eyes. "It's…I think it might be getting worse."

Mrs Hudson wiped her lips with a napkin and started to get to her feet.

"I'm going to ask one of these nice young men to call you an ambulance," she said firmly.

Molly caught her arm.

"No, really, I don't…I don't think it's _that_ bad. Perhaps…I think I'll head across to the hospital in a cab and see if someone will see me."

"I'm looking after you today, dear, and I won't take any chances," Mrs Hudson continued. "Not with your health or with the health of my grandchild."

Molly managed a slight smile at hearing Mrs Hudson describe her's and Sherlock's baby in that way. But there was no hiding from it now – the pain was becoming more severe, and Molly could feel sweat beading on her skin as her body tried to cope with her increasing panic.

Within seconds, Mrs Hudson had discreetly summoned a waiter, who went hurrying off towards the front desk. The next thing Molly knew, Mrs Hudson's surprisingly strong arm was helping her out of the chair and supporting her to the front of the hotel. The maître d' stepped in, instructing her staff to make Molly comfortable in the lounge area, and posting one of the waiters outside to look out for and flag down the ambulance.

Sherlock. She had to speak to him.

With Mrs Hudson beside her and holding one of her hands, Molly hit the speed dial and waited. She felt like crying when it went straight to voicemail. He never sent calls directly to voicemail any more, not since he'd vowed to always be contactable when she needed him.

"You keep trying," Mrs Hudson told her, her calm tone just about the only thing now keeping Molly together. "I'm going to call John."

There was an agonizing silence as they both waited – and both got the same result.

"I'm getting his answering message, too," Mrs Hudson sighed. "What are they playing at, the pair of them?"

Molly had now got Sherlock's voicemail four time and knew it was hopeless. Wherever he was, he wasn't able to answer his phone. Then, as she firmly massaged her bump – willing the baby to react to her - she thought of another option.

She scrolled down her contacts list until she found Greg's number. Molly closed her eyes, feeling the first tears spilling down her cheeks as it tried to connect.

And he answered.

"Molly, hi!" he said, cheerfully. "Look, I'm just about to head into a meeting, I-"

"Greg, I'm really sorry, but I need to speak to Sherlock and I can't get hold of him, and I think it might be an emergency and – god, I'm so sorry – but I don't know what to do, but I thought he might be with you."

She felt Mrs Hudson's hand grip hers a little tighter.

"No, I got called back to the station; left them both down there," Greg replied. "Molls, what's going on? Is something wrong? Where are you?"

It seemed ridiculous to explain that she was in the lobby of a five-star hotel, but when she told him he took it in his stride.

"Mrs Hudson's with me," she added. "I'm not…I'm not by myself."

"Good," Greg replied. "Now listen, Molly, I'm going to get in touch with the team at the crime scene and have someone go down there and get him out. He won't have any signal down there in the old tunnels. And I'm coming over there right now – listen, I'm already on my way down the back stairs to the car park."

Molly closed her eyes again, nodding, forgetting that he couldn't see her response.

"I'm…we're waiting for an ambulance to take us to Bart's," she said, her breath hitching as a wave of pain took hold.

"Then we'll put Sherlock in a squad car and send him straight there," Greg said firmly. "We'll get him to you, Molls, don't worry."

She wiped the tears from her cheek with the back of her hand.

"Greg, please…" she began, exhaling deeply. "Don't…don't worry him. Don't…I know how worried he'll be."

There was a momentary pause, and she could hear he was outside now, presumably in the car park.

"Sit tight, Molls," he said eventually. "We'll be as quick as we can, promise."

As soon as Greg rang off, she found herself wishing he'd stayed on the line; somehow it felt like a connection to Sherlock, seemed as though he was less far away. The hotel staff fussed around her, enquiring as to whether she needed anything, could they call anyone, and Molly was grateful to Mrs Hudson for deflecting their questions; it was now all she could do to sit still and breathe through the pain, feeling as though every minute was an hour.

The sense of relief was immense when – finally - she realized that the vehicle getting closer, its siren wailing, was pulling up outside the building, followed a few moments later, but the sight of one of the hotel's clerks hurrying back into the lobby with a paramedic. Mrs Hudson was instantly on her feet and explaining the situation, although such was her need to focus on managing the pain that Molly barely heard what she was saying. The paramedic was on her knees in front of her then, asking her questions, then speaking to someone through a radio.

"Okay, Molly, we're going to get you across to University College Hospital," the paramedic said. "They're waiting for you to come in."

Molly suddenly felt another wave of panic, and immediately felt ridiculous – she was a medical professional herself, and shouldn't be feeling this way but…

"I…I want to go to Bart's," she heard herself say. "Please…it's where, it's where my…husband is going."

Molly didn't realise she'd said the word until she heard it out loud. She resolutely did not look at Mrs Hudson.

"UC is closer," the paramedic replied. "We should have your husband meet you there instead."

She wasn't going to cry about this, she _wasn't_ – well, she was crying anyway, but adding this on top of the stirring fear and dread over the baby seemed ludicrous; picking silly little battles.

At that moment, the door opened again and suddenly Greg was hurrying towards them, looking for all the world as though he'd run all the way there from New Scotland Yard. Molly had never been so glad to see him in her life, although she could immediately tell that the positivity he was trying to convey wasn't doing much to mask his concern.

"How're you doing, sweetheart?" he asked, coming to hunker doing beside her.

"Did you get hold of him? Is he coming?" Molly blurted, swallowing back a new surge of tears.

"Donovan's sending someone to find him right now," he replied, nodding. "I've told her to call me as soon as he's on his way."

He looked around him, clearly saw that the paramedic was standing by; sensed an atmosphere.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"They want to take Molly to a different hospital, not Bart's," Mrs Hudson said, and Molly felt the older woman's arm wrap protectively around her back.

Greg nodded, getting to his feet.

"Hi," he said, greeting the paramedic. "I'm DI Lestrade. Do you happen to know who Sherlock Holmes is?"

The paramedic looked momentarily – and understandably – confused.

"Er…yes."

"Well, Sherlock Holmes is a good friend of mine, and this here is his missus. I know you're just doing your job, but believe me, when it comes to his family, you don't want to go pissing off Sherlock Holmes."

The paramedic sighed, flicked a glance back towards the door.

"We're following standard procedure," she replied. "Dr Hooper needs urgent care, and we can't take a chance by adding extra time to the journey."

"I've got a squad car outside," Greg said. "We'll give you an escort."

Molly looked between the two of them, harassment and indecision marking the paramedic's face. But Greg wasn't hanging around.

"Come on, Molls," he said. "Can you walk?"

She nodded, biting back on another wave of pain. As he helped her to her feet, Mrs Hudson's supportive hand on her back, Molly felt light-headed and knew her blood-pressure must have dropped. Which probably meant the baby's blood-pressure would be dropping, too…

The paramedic came around to take her other arm, using her free hand to grasp her radio and relay the change in destination to the waiting driver. Molly steeled herself, even as she felt the colour draining from her face, and allowed herself to be helped through the door of the hotel and out into the glare of the winter sun.

"You're doing wonderfully, dear," Mrs Hudson told her, but a glance at her friend's face conveyed what she would never say – that she was very clearly scared and upset about what was going on.

"Mrs H is right, Molls," Greg added, his tone almost comically upbeat. "Not long now. And that fella of yours will be on his way soon."

Gingerly, they helped her into the ambulance, Greg jumping into the vehicle to help Mrs Hudson climb into the spare seat in the back. Immediately, the paramedic encouraged Molly onto the gurney, the pain coursing through her as she swung her legs up in front of her. She started to run through the possible options in her head, the likely medical explanations, but found that her brain couldn't focus for more than a few seconds. Was she bleeding? She couldn't feel it, but would she even know?

The paramedic banged on the partition and the driver started the engine.

"Molly, I'll be right up ahead in the squad car," Greg said, after he'd climbed down from the vehicle. "I'm going to try Donovan again in a minute, and I'll call Mrs H if there's any news. Okay?"

"Greg!"

He looked up, paused.

"We've got to go," the paramedic interjected, poised the close the back doors of the ambulance.

"Wait!" Molly insisted, taking another deep breath. "Greg, if anything…if anything happens…"

She could barely bring herself to finish the thought, let alone the sentence. Just thinking about Sherlock, about any other future than the one they'd planned, was too agonizing to even contemplate. But equally, she would never forgive herself if she pretended that everything was definitely going to be okay; she always had a contingency plan, and now couldn't be any different.

Greg shook his head.

"Molly, you don't have to do that. You'll see him really soon, I promise."

"But you know what to tell him?" she pressed.

This time he nodded.

"Sherlock knows that, Molly," he said. "But yeah, I know what to tell him. I just know I won't need to."

She was just able to see him jog ahead to the waiting patrol car before the doors of the ambulance were slammed shut, the siren coming to life as it was joined in chorus by a second siren from the police car. Molly lay back against the tilted gurney and the paramedic slipped a BP monitor over her wrist and up her arm; she knew from the woman's facial expression that she wasn't happy with the reading she was seeing. The paramedic sat back in the jump-seat, still holding the monitor, looking at her watch.

In the other seat, Mrs Hudson fidgeted with her handbag, unable now to offer Molly the small comfort of holding her hand. She frowned, shook her head, touched her fingers to her lips.

"I'm trying Sherlock again," she said, taking out her phone. "I'm really going to give that man what for when I see him, not being around when you need him."

Molly wanted to argue that it wasn't Sherlock's fault, that it couldn't have been predicted – and also what she could not yet speak aloud, the realisation that perhaps, if she hadn't ignored John's advice, if she hadn't believed she knew better (and hadn't wanted to make bloody fuss), none of this would be happening. But all of that felt beyond her now, her mind starting to fug and drift, a growing feeling of nausea roiling up from deep within her, and still _the pain, the pain, the pain_.

As the city rushed past in a haze of light and cacophony of sound, it was all Molly could do just to repeat the same silent mantra - the same plea - to the life she carried inside her that was already so cherished, so wanted:

 _Be okay; just please, please be okay._


	15. Chapter 15

**Okay, buckle up, because this is a bit of a long chapter. Apologies to anyone and everyone who wanted to kill me after I left this on a bit of an angsty cliffhanger - I'm afraid it arguably gets worse in this chapter before it gets better...but I promise it does get better.**

 **Thank you to everyone who has been leaving such lovely, supportive comments - and to everyone else who's just taken the time to read. Hope you enjoy!**

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"It's clearly somebody's idea of a prank."

Sherlock briefly glanced across to where John was standing, one hand in his pocket, one hand directing the high-powered torch so that Sherlock could get a better look at the scene. Considering that John was the one who seemed eager to take on a new case, he didn't seem particularly engaged – Sherlock was starting to think that perhaps this was actually John's idea of keeping him busy, like a small child with a colouring book and crayons. Wanker.

"I'm not saying it isn't a good prank," John continued, kicking at the dust and debris on the floor of the disused control room. "Elaborate. Good attention to detail. Just can't figure out why anyone would go to the trouble."

"Hold it still," Sherlock ordered, as the beam of light shifted.

"Have I been relegated to the position of torch-bearer now, Sherlock?"

"Not if you can't hold it steadier than that, no."

The case had turned out to be a little more interesting than he'd anticipated at first glance, although clearly not something that Lestrade was considering high priority, judging by the small police presence and the fact that they'd been given more or less free reign over the crime scene. A good old-fashioned mystery, it seemed – the sort of thing Lestrade hated ("Christ, I don't have time for this kind of thing" were his exact words), but that he was unashamedly rather drawn to.

"So what are we thinking?" John asked. "Because by now I'm sure we're thinking something, and not just enjoying poking around in eighty years of dust, filth and dead rodents."

"Skeletal remains, male, aged…probably forty to sixty," Sherlock began. "Best guess is that he has been deceased for approximately five years, which would be unremarkable had he not been discovered in a room that has been sealed off and out-of-bounds for almost eighty."

He circled the control panel again, in front of which said skeleton had been arranged on a chair.

"Judging by the way that the body has been posed, he didn't break in here and drop dead – he was deliberately brought to this location. Someone went to a lot of effort to put him here, wanted to make a point, knew that sooner or later – and probably sooner – he would be found…"

Sherlock stepped back, observing patterns in the dust on the floor and using his magnifier to try and pick out any partial footprints in the grime. Thanks to the rumbling of trains overhead, a lot of debris had clearly been knocked loose from the crumbling plaster ceiling and dropped to the floor below, leaving little chance of finding anything useful…

"Didn't you investigate something similar a few years ago?" John asked. "You know, back when I was still pissed off with you for faking your own death. You took Molly along instead?"

"That was nothing more than a lazy hoax. And I didn't take Molly along with me because you were pissed off," Sherlock replied, his eyes still focused on the area around the skeleton. "I took Molly along because I couldn't bear to be around that moustache of yours."

He braced himself for John's angry retort, but instead they were interrupted by another voice. A young uniformed police officer appeared at the door of the old control room.

"What?" Sherlock growled.

"He means 'how can we help?'" John added.

"Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, sorry to interrupt," the officer replied, looking suitably intimidated. "But we've had a call come down from Detective Inspector Lestrade. Mr Holmes, I've got instructions to take you to Bart's Hospital right away."

Sherlock immediately felt his heart leap in his chest, and he automatically looked across to his friend, who locked eyes with him.

"Sherlock," John said. "This could be it, mate - it could be time!"

Sherlock furrowed his brow, wondering why something didn't feel right – wondering why he wasn't experiencing the rush of excitement he had been expecting to feel.

"Three weeks early," he murmured.

"Yeah, but that's not unheard of. The baby's full-term now, so it could be any time," John replied. "Come on, let's go."

Sherlock quickly pocketed the pouch containing his magnifier and other equipment, and followed the officer out of the door and along the tunnel towards the service exit. It was only at that point that he thought to fish out his phone, and of course realised – _stupid!_ – that he there was no signal. He felt his stomach drop like a stone.

"What exactly was the message?" he demanded, as they all picked up the pace. "What did Lestrade say? Did he mention Molly?"

"I'm sorry, sir, I don't know any more than that," the officer replied, standing back to let Sherlock and John go up the wrought iron spiral staircase ahead of him. "Just Bart's Hospital as soon as possible."

Sherlock clanged up the staircase, using his hands to pull himself up as quickly as he could. Why didn't this feel right?

"Sherlock?" John called, questioningly.

"I don't know," Sherlock replied, hearing the fear in his own voice. "I…I need to speak to Molly."

When they arrived back at street level a few moments later and Sherlock saw his phone display showing full signal, it was like coming up for air. Four missed calls from Molly, two from Mrs Hudson. _Stupid, stupid!_ He hit speed-dial and pleaded under his breath for the sound of Molly's voice in his ear. It didn't come.

"She's not answering!" he cried, as John fell into step beside him, both following the police officer to the cordon. "Something's wrong, John."

"Try again," John replied firmly, his voice unnaturally calm – how could he be so calm? – "I'm going to try Greg."

Before he could do so, Sherlock looked up to see Sally Donovan jogging down the side street towards them, her own phone in her hand. One look at her facial expression confirmed everything that Sherlock feared.

"Sally, what's going on? What's this message from Greg all about?"

John was the first one to get the words out.

"You need to get to Bart's, both of you," Sally said, breathing hard from her run. "Molly's being taken there by ambulance right now. She could be there already."

Ambulance. Sherlock knew that if all was well, if Molly really was in labour and things were progressing normally, she'd have taken a cab or – if she really couldn't get hold of him – asked Mrs Hudson to take her. Molly, _his_ Molly, who never made a fuss about anything, would not call an ambulance on a whim.

"Is Molly all right?" he said, realising by the way Donovan flinched that he must have yelled the words. "What's happened? Is she okay? What did Lestrade say?"

He saw her bite her lip, blink, clearly out of her depth.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock," she said, her fingers twisting around the bangle at her wrist. "I really have no more information than that."

At that moment, both Sherlock and John's phones rang almost simultaneously.

"It's Greg," John said, looking down at his phone display. He stuck a finger in his ear and twisted away so he could take the call.

"Molly!" Sherlock said, seeing her name appear on his own phone. He snatched it up, and was momentarily confused – and then terrified – by the fact that it was not Molly's voice on the other end of the line. It was Mrs Hudson.

"Oh, Sherlock, thank goodness!" she cried. "We've been trying to get hold of you, and-"

"Mrs Hudson, where's Molly? What's going on? Is she all right?"

"We're just arriving at the hospital. I'm in the ambulance with her, love. She took ill while he were out this afternoon; it happened so quickly."

"Let me speak to her."

There was a pause, and Sherlock thought his heart might rip in two.

"She can't…she's not well enough, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson replied, and he could hear she was fighting back tears. "She needs to save her energy. They're about to take her in. Just get here as quick as you can, love."

"Wh-what about the baby?" he said, the pain in his chest now surging through the rest of his body.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock, we just don't know anything yet," she replied, and he could hear that the tears were now very real. "Just...you need to get here."

The second she rung off, Sherlock wished he had demanded she stay on the line, but now he understood the gravity of the situation, his feet took over. Within seconds, he was in the back of the waiting squad car, yelling at John to move his arse and get in with him. They took off, the officer at the wheel immediately switching on the blues-and-twos as they swerved out onto the main road.

"I spoke to Greg," John said, holding onto the seat in front of him for support. "He's just arrived at Bart's himself and is going to follow Molly and Mrs Hudson up to the maternity unit."

Sherlock couldn't bear to look at his friend's face; it was all he could do to stare straight ahead at the traffic, pleading with it to part like the Red Sea.

"Has...did he speak to Molly?"

"He helped to bring her from the hotel, yeah," John replied. "He said…it sounds like she's pretty poorly. But she's where she needs to be now, Sherlock. She's in the best place; they're ready for this kind of thing."

Sherlock didn't dare ask John to elaborate on what he meant by 'this kind of thing'; as his brain scrolled through everything he'd read in the past eight months, he realised the possibilities were too innumerable and horrendous to even begin to consider. He knew, though, that he would give it all up – everything, even _being with_ Molly – to guarantee that she would be okay. This was it: he was now experiencing everything that he'd feared most about sentiment, about love and its cruel, capricious power – and he knew he was at its mercy, that it had its claws in him and wouldn't let go.

000000000000

He was out of the car and running before the siren had cut out, hearing John's footfall keeping pace behind him as they burst through the automatic doors at the back of the hospital, their route enabling them to bypass the reception desk. It was just as well he had committed the building blueprint of Bart's to his Mind Palace, because in his now-debilitating panic, there was no way he would be otherwise able to navigate his way to the maternity unit.

All he could think of now was her, only her, and in doing so he tried to focus on her smile, her laugh, how she felt in his arms, trying desperately to block out any thoughts that might take him down a darker road.

The door to the unit was locked, and he pounded on the door, yelling for one of the members of staff at the reception desk up ahead to let him in. A nurse (midwife?) hurried round from the desk, a look of mild fear on her face at the mad man separated from her by a heavy glass door. She hesitated, didn't immediately make a move to open it.

"You need to keep it together, Sherlock," John said, a hand on Sherlock's arm, which he had to fight not to shrug off. "They won't let you in otherwise."

Just then, another figure came into view – Lestrade – and Sherlock could see him talking to the woman, gesturing towards him, explaining things. It was slow agony to watch as the woman's expression downgraded from outright fear to strong mistrust, and she eventually moved towards him.

"Molly Hooper," Sherlock blurted, the second the door was opened. "Where is she? I need to see her."

"You're Baby's father?" she asked.

He nodded dumbly.

"Wait here," she told him, and once again he felt John's hand on his arm, stilling him.

By this point, both Lestrade and Mrs Hudson were in front of him, too. Mrs Hudson had flown towards them both, but had chosen to fling her arms around John, sensing – correctly – that Sherlock couldn't bear it at that moment. Eventually, her small hand reached out to take Sherlock's, clutching it and squeezing it tightly.

"Thank you," John said to her. "Both of you, really, thanks so much for all you've done."

"Of course," Greg replied, nodding. "Least we could do, mate."

"Greg, maybe you could take Mrs Hudson downstairs for a cup of coffee," John continued. "I don't know how long we're going to be here."

"I'm not going anywhere, John Watson," replied Mrs Hudson, indignantly, and Sherlock felt a swell of gratitude towards his formidable landlady. "I'm staying right here for Molly and Sherlock."

The same nurse appeared at the end of the hallway, her hand raised in the air to gesture at them.

"Mr Holmes? You can come through. She's asking for you."

Sherlock immediately turned to John.

"Will you come?"

He couldn't articulate why, couldn't say that he feared he might need his friend more than at any other time during their acquaintance.

John looked momentarily torn, unsure.

"I..um…yeah, if that's… if they'll let me…if that's what you want, Sherlock…."

"Then you're coming," he replied, taking off up the corridor to the open door where the nurse stood sentry. Sherlock expected a protest at the sight of John following him in, and perhaps there was one, but he didn't stop to find out.

He skidded to a halt outside the room where another nurse was waiting to show him in – and then he saw his first glimpse of Molly, and his heart flipped over. She was lying on the bed, a blood pressure monitor attached to one arm, and a series of other wires leading to her body from a variety of machines, including a pad secured to her exposed belly.

"Sherlock?"

Her voice was barely above a whisper. She looked deathly pale, hollow-eyed, but she was trying to smile at him, and Sherlock's heart almost broke all over again. He knelt by her side and immediately clasped her hand in his. Before he let the doctors in the room bring him back to reality, he pressed a desperate kiss to Molly's lips.

"Molly, what's happening? Are you…are you both okay?"

He saw her lick her lips, could see how parched they were.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Sorry? Molly, why are you sorry?"

"I don't know what happened," she continued. "It came on so quickly."

Sherlock felt a figure looming behind him.

"Mr Holmes, I'm Doctor Rafiq. We're currently monitoring Dr Hooper and the baby to decide what course of action we need to take next. Her blood pressure isn't where I'd like it to be, and we want to see if we can make baby more comfortable, too."

Sherlock blinked hard.

"The baby's okay?"

He realised he had found himself assuming the worst, and he felt Molly's fingers grip his a little tighter.

"We'll know more soon," the doctor continued. "We're monitoring heartrate and blood pressure, and I'm hopeful that things might stabilise. However, I've asked for some colleagues to come down and consult before we decide on the way forward."

As he stepped back, John came forward, and Sherlock could see him glance at the readouts from the monitors before he addressed Molly.

"Hey, Molly," he said. "Thank god you're okay."

"Do you know what they're thinking, John?" she whispered. "I…I thought maybe an amniotic embolism, but the symptoms don't exactly match up."

He shook his head.

"I don't…we shouldn't try to second-guess. I'm just here to take care of this bloke, so that he's in a fit state to take care of you."

Sherlock dragged a chair across to the bed without breaking contact, then wrapped his arm around Molly's shoulders. She slowly lifted her face to look at him, and he placed a kiss on her forehead.

"You're doing so well, my love," he whispered, acknowledging as he said it how rarely he used terms of affection with her. It tended to make him feel awkward, clumsy, self-conscious, but right now none of that mattered.

Then he felt her grip relax.

"Her BP's dropping," a voice said.

"Baby's, too," said another.

"Let's try and do something about that," the original doctor said, stepping forward quickly.

Suddenly, the bed seemed to be surrounded, and Sherlock found himself being shunted aside. His heart gathered pace and suddenly his face felt as though it was burning. Within seconds, the room seemed to be full of people, and he felt John's hand on his elbow, holding him steady, as Molly was gradually swallowed up by a sea of blue uniforms. He tried to make out what he could from the hushed exchanges.

"John, what's happening?" he said.

"I don't know, Sherlock," he replied, and Sherlock heard his friend's own fear in his voice. "But the fact that both blood pressure readings are dropping isn't good."

"AP," Sherlock muttered. "Someone just said something about AP. What does that mean?"

"AP," John repeated, clearly mining his medical knowledge on the fly. "AP. Abruptio placentae. It's an abruption of the placenta, Sherlock. They must think that's a possibility here."

Sherlock started to reel through everything he'd read, recognising the term and trying to recall the detail.

"That…it's a dangerous condition, John," he said, swallowing hard. "It…it can be fatal to both mother and child."

"No, no, no," John said quickly. "Don't go there, Sherlock. It is mostly fatal in countries that don't have adequate medical care. Molly is getting the best possible care here, they'll have seen this before and they'll act quickly if it turns out that is what's behind this."

Sherlock surged forward, pushing past the nurses at the bedside until he was beside Molly again. Her eyes were closed, and he realised what was going on – someone was hooking her up to an oxygen mask.

"Molly!" he said, cupping her face in his hand. "Molly, can you hear me?"

"Mr Holmes, you'll need to step back," the doctor said, an arm coming out to emphasise what he should be doing.

He shook his head, held his ground.

"Mr Holmes. We're alerting the surgical team now, so you need to step away so we can move her."

"She needs surgery?" he replied, feeling the first damnable prick of tears in the corner of his eyes.

"We're going to get the baby out," the doctor said. "It's our best option at this point."

Around him, the nurses were preparing to move Molly's bed, securing the sides in place, removing the brakes.

"I need to...I'm coming with her," he replied, realising that his hands were shaking.

"The nurses here will find you somewhere quiet to wait," came the response. "We need to take her now."

"No, you can't take her, not without me!" Sherlock growled, clamping his hand around the rail on the bed. "I need to be there, I have to see her!"

The bed was already moving, and Sherlock felt John's strong grip levering his hand away from the bedrail.

"Sherlock, come on," his friend said. "You have to do what they say, for Molly."

"You don't understand, John, I promised I would be there!"

As he made to go after the medical team, who were now moving at speed, he felt both of John's arms grab him around his waist. The fight was draining out of him as he allowed John to pull him back towards the opposite door, the one from which they had entered; he then felt the dam burst and the tears start to fall.

Somehow - without knowing quite how much time had passed - Sherlock found himself in another, smaller room, this one furnished with hospital-issue bucket chairs and bland, pastel watercolours depicting generic, inoffensive landscapes. But he hadn't made it as far as a chair before he had surrendered to the tears, his whole body heaving and rolling as he crumpled onto the floor. He dragged both hands through his hair, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes as though his own pain might do something to assuage Molly's.

 _He couldn't lose her, he couldn't._ _Not now, not after everything._ He could understand how the universe might see fit to right the balance of things, to bring him to book for the sins of his past – even for his part in Mary's death – but how did any of that justify bringing harm to Molly? Molly, who had devoted her life to finding answers for grieving families, who put the needs of her friends before her own, who loved him fiercely and with a purity that he could never begin to deserve.

He drew his knees up to his chest, his face still buried in his hands, and he felt the brush of fabric against his side. John was down on the floor beside him, and Sherlock felt his friend's arm stretch around his shoulders and pull him closer.

"Don't, John," Sherlock choked. "Don't tell me it's going to be okay."

"Emergency C-sections are incredibly common, Sherlock. They're usually quick procedures, too, and the theatre is just at the other side of the corridor, so we shouldn't be waiting long before we hear something."

"But…she looked so...so sick," he sniffed. "Molly's never ill. She's been so healthy during this pregnancy, and now this? I'm not used to…"

"I know," John murmured, squeezing his shoulder. "I know."

They sat there in silence for a while, and Sherlock leant his head back against the wall, allowing himself to inhale more deeply in an attempt to bring his breathing under control. He let the tears fall freely now, waiting only until his vision blurred completely before swiping at his cheeks. It was hard not to draw parallels to Sherrinford, to the complete emotional evisceration he felt after the destruction of the coffin, and he wondered whether John saw the correlation too. Or perhaps he was being too self-involved, because if _he_ was John, he would surely be struggling not to think about Mary at this time.

A heavy door swung open somewhere out in the hallway; it sounded close by. Then, Sherlock heard a sound that he would remember vividly for the rest of his life.

"Is that…?"

He leaned forward, an urgent need to hear it again.

His risked a glance at his friend; saw John cock his head, listening.

"Yeah, I think it could be," John replied. The tiniest of smiles started to pull at the corners of John's mouth, but Sherlock couldn't permit himself, not yet.

But there it was again, and now there was no doubt about it – they could hear the first mewling cries of a new-born baby.

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat, his heart starting to pound. He scrambled to his feet and over to the door, just in time for the door to be opened and a woman in scrubs to come into the room.

"Mr Holmes? I'm Miss Campbell, I'm one of the surgeons," she said, folding her hands in front of her. "Your partner, Miss Hooper, presented with several symptoms that suggested a partial abruption of the placenta. An emergency Caesarean section was performed, and I'm delighted to be able to tell you that at four fifty-two this afternoon, Miss Hooper delivered a healthy baby boy. Nine pounds and five ounces."

She looked from Sherlock to John, and back again.

"Congratulations!" the surgeon said, and Sherlock looked at the hand that touched his arm, the one that had presumably just delivered him a miracle.

Sherlock blinked, swallowed, pinched his lips together.

"Wh-what about Molly, is she…?"

The surgeon smiled again, and it felt to Sherlock as though he'd just had the wind knocked out of him.

"Mum's doing fine," the woman said. "We had to do a bit of work to stabilise her, as she lost a fair bit of blood. We'll monitor her closely, as she may still need a transfusion – but she'll be taken through to the recovery room soon, and then you can see her."

Sherlock felt his knees go from under him, and only caught himself from falling when he felt John's hand grasping his elbow. Instead of leaving him to steady himself, John threw his arms around Sherlock's waist and practically lifted him off his feet. He heard John's voice rumble against shoulder.

"Congratulations, Sherlock!" he murmured. "Oh god, congratulations, mate!"

When John released him, held him at arm's length, Sherlock saw the tears in his friend's eyes – real and raw, but happy, oh so happy, and Sherlock felt his own rush of exhilaration, his own joyful tears chasing away the ones borne of despair.

They realised at the same time that the surgeon was still standing there, her hand on the door, holding it slightly open. She was glancing behind her into the hallway.

"I think there's someone out here who wants to meet his dad," she said, turning back with a smile.

That was him. She was talking about _him_. Because it was real now, it had happened – after thirty-seven weeks and the worst hour of his life, what for so long only felt like theory was now reality. Everything had changed.

Sherlock felt John take a step backwards as the surgical nurse came into the room, holding a bundle wrapped up in a white crochet blanket. Out of the top of the bundle he could see a tiny blue knitted hat, and as the nurse came closer, a little fist shot out of the blanket.

And then he was there.

His little boy, Molly's little boy.

The nurse was right in front of him now and when Sherlock set his eyes on his new-born son his immediate reaction was that he could never look away again. The baby wasn't crying any longer, perhaps too curious about the new face he'd been introduced to, a new scent, another set of stimuli. Dark eyes squinted up at him. He was so utterly perfect that Sherlock couldn't help but touch a tentative finger to his son's forehead, stroke his temple; the baby crinkled up his face in response, and Sherlock felt his own face break into a broad smile. He'd seen that expression somewhere before.

"You look like your mummy," he whispered.

Although aware that it was a terrible cliché, Sherlock gently nudged his son's tightly closed fist with his index finger, and immediately the tiny fingers latched onto his with a fierce grip. He recalled what he'd read about the Palmar grasp reflex, about a new-born's ability to support its own weight – although probably best not to test that theory (a Bit Not Good wouldn't begin to cover it).

"Do you want to take him?" the nurse asked, and Sherlock realised it was probably rhetorical, however apprehensive her was feeling. It almost didn't seem fair that he got to do this before Molly, but he had never wanted anything more in his life.

He positioned his arms as he'd seen John do so many times with a younger Rosamund, like he'd secretly watched on YouTube videos, like he'd furtively practiced with Rosie's doll when John accidentally left it behind in his flat. But a doll was nothing like the warm, reassuring weight of a new-born baby, and a few moments later, when the nurse was satisfied that he wasn't going to spectacularly drop his child, she moved away and Sherlock was on his own. Although not on his own – not any longer, never again.

"Hello," he whispered, because it seemed like a good way to begin. "I should probably introduce myself…"


	16. Chapter 16

Before she was conscious of the oxygen mask or the feeling of dry nausea, Molly was aware that a hand was holding hers. She opened her eyes and, through the fog of the mask, she could see Sherlock sitting on a chair close to the bed. His gaze was cast downwards and his other hand was splayed across his chest - and her immediate thought was that he was hurt somehow.

"Sherlock…?"

His eyes immediately flicked up to meet hers, his hand grasping hers tighter as he looked at her with…what? Concern? Sympathy?

"Molly…" – she heard her name like a sigh.

No – relief, gladness.

Then something clicked into place.

"Sherlock, wh-? Where? The baby-?"

And that's when she saw the smile spread across his face, revealing the deepening laughter lines that she loved so much.

"He's fine. He's right here."

She couldn't see what he was talking about, held back by not only the mask but a fluid drip in one arm and the lead-heaviness of her body. Instead, Sherlock shuffled forward on the chair, and then Molly saw why he had a hand to his chest…

He was holding his jacket across himself, and when he pulled it down slightly Molly could see that his shirt was open and a tiny form was curled up against his chest. She heard herself gasp and, ignoring the raw aches in her limbs, leant forward so she could see more.

"I…I remembered what we'd been told about skin-to-skin contact," Sherlock said, his voice stammering slightly. "And since you weren't able to offer it right away, I thought…well, the midwife said it would be a good idea."

Molly felt the first prick of tears, and her breath hitched as a wave of affection for him took hold.

"Is he…is everything okay?" she asked. It almost didn't seem possible, given what had gone before.

He nodded, angling his chin downwards to look at the top of their son's ( _their son's!_ ) head.

"He's perfect, Molly," he murmured. "And I should know. I haven't stopped looking at him for the past half an hour. He got a little bored of looking at _me_ , however, and decided he'd rather sleep."

He looked up again and their eyes met in what felt to Molly like mutual wonderment.

"You were right," she smiled, her voice rasping from under the mask.

"Hmm?"

"We have a little boy."

At that, Sherlock's eyes looked almost mournful, and he gave a barely perceptible shake of the head.

"I don't care about that," he told her, taking up her hand and bringing it just close enough so he could kiss it. "You're both here, and given that I was certain less than an hour ago that I was going to lose at least one of you, I couldn't possibly care about anything else."

It was only then that Molly noticed the shadows under his eyes, the swelling of his eyelids – he had been crying. She felt the first inklings of the gravity of what had happened, a sense of what he had been put through.

"I'm sorry I scared you," she told him, caressing the back of his hand with her thumb.

"Don't you dare say you're sorry," he replied, shaking his head. "I'm so sorry – so _very_ sorry - I wasn't there when you needed me most. You did everything right, Molly – you got here, and you remained strong when it would have been easy to give up. The surgeon told me…she said if you'd left it even another hour, things could have been…could have had a…a different outcome."

Molly smiled.

"That was Mrs Hudson," she said. "She insisted on the ambulance."

Sherlock let out a short, soft laugh.

"Well, then I'm immensely grateful to Hudders - but right now, it isn't her that I want to kiss," he said, and carefully, gingerly, he got to his feet. Still cradling the baby with one hand, he leant over her and pushed the oxygen mask up and over Molly's forehead. She saw him close his eyes before his lips met hers in a kiss that seemed to want to say so many things – _I love you, you're here, I'm here, he's here, it's all okay._

When Sherlock broke the kiss, he moved back to make space on the bed beside her, just enough on which to perch, anchoring his left arm on the back of the bed. He carefully removed his jacket from his chest and (with less care) discarded it back on the chair – it was only then that Molly had her first proper look at the little life they had created. The tiny head with a sparse covering of wispy dark hair, the chubby cheek pressed firmly against his father's chest, the little mouth slightly open in an almost perfect 'o'. And the unmistakable cupid's bow lips.

"He has your mouth," Molly smiled, craning her head to look up at Sherlock.

At this, Sherlock looked immeasurably proud, peering down to take a look for himself.

"Well, as long as what eventually comes out of it is eminently more sensible than my average utterance," he replied with a soft chuckle.

As if on cue, their son gave a surprisingly loud snort, only slightly muffled by Sherlock's chest. He and Molly looked at each other and exchanged startled smiles.

"What did I say? Already more sensible," Sherlock said.

Molly snuggled into Sherlock's side, aware that she should probably replace the oxygen mask, but reluctant to take away the unfettered view she had of their little boy. _Oh, he was perfect._ It wasn't as though Molly didn't know what it was like to fall in love at first sight – and now it was happening all over again, and she was more than happy to surrender to it.

As she reached out her free hand to touch their baby for the first time, she felt the importance of the moment, the fact that she wanted to be able to recall the memory forever. Her fingers gently made contact with the crown of his head, gently sweeping over the downy fuzz, and she ran one finger down the tiny bridge of his button nose. Molly realised how desperate she was to hold her son, how strange it was – after nine long months of his constant presence – to be suddenly independent of him.

Sherlock seemed to understand this without her having to say anything, and she waited while he carefully lifted their son out of his shirt front (if anyone wore shirts completely ill-suited for stashing a baby, it was Sherlock, although Molly was rather too fond of his slim-fit tailoring to suggest he make a change). With more care than Molly had ever seen him apply before, he lowered the baby into her waiting arms, supporting his head until certain Molly was holding him comfortably. As she settled back with him, the baby suddenly stretched, flailing out his arms and jutting out his legs.

"The Moro reflex," Sherlock murmured. "Shows the central nervous system is working well."

Molly smiled; she knew Sherlock was going to enjoy cataloguing every moment of their son's growth and development.

"Hello, my darling," she whispered, touching her lips to the baby's forehead. "Hello, my beautiful boy."

He wrinkled his nose in his sleep, furrowing his brow as though thinking deeply.

"I think we did a good job," Sherlock said softly, pressing his lips her temple.

"I think so, too," she replied, watching the rapid rise and fall of their son's heartbeat beneath the fabric of his clothes.

"Um, I'm not sure about his outfit, though," Molly whispered. As well as the blue knitted hat, their son was dressed in a red and white striped Babygro bearing the slogan 'Football-crazy Like My Daddy'.

Sherlock snorted.

"Ah, yes, unfortunately it was the only one the hospital could find in his size," he replied. "Well, it was either that or pink with unicorns. A man's sartorial decisions are his own, but he didn't seem to have a strong opinion either way. Perhaps in hindsight the unicorns might have been better."

"You dressed him?" Molly smiled. Something about that idea caused a warmth to spread across her chest; she wished she could have been awake to witness it.

"Of course," Sherlock replied, as though surprised she might question it. "I could hardly leave him in just a blanket."

"From what I've heard from John, you once turned up at Buckingham Palace in just a blanket," Molly smirked, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Technically a bedsheet," Sherlock replied, with a lopsided smile. "But I did remember the necessity of this young man wearing pants. Or pants equivalent, anyway."

Molly traced her finger over the small fist was tucked up beside their son's face. He flinched a little, squirming, his mouth twitching up at one side.

"John had to get back to the childminder and to give Rosie some dinner," Sherlock continued. "But he's going to bring your hospital bag at visiting time later, so you should both have everything you need for your stay."

She knew she should probably be clamouring for a warm shower and a change of clothes, but even if she had the strength and permission to leave the bed, Molly had no desire to be anywhere else.

A knock of the door heralded the arrival of a small army of medical staff, and Molly reluctantly handed their child back to Sherlock so that heartrate and blood pressure readings could be taken, her fluid levels checked and painkillers administered. The surgeon, she was advised, would be along later to talk about the procedure that had been undertaken, and a nurse would come and talk to her about after-care.

"Look at him," one of the nurses said with a smile, as she removed the BP monitor from Molly's arm. "Butter wouldn't melt. No idea of what he's just put Mummy and Daddy through. Does he have a name yet?"

Molly looked across to Sherlock and back again to the nurse.

"We…ah…we're still deciding," she replied.

"Well, he's absolutely gorgeous, whatever he ends up being called," the nurse said, and, with a conspiratorial nod towards Sherlock added, "At least now I can see where he gets those long legs, and the big hands and feet."

It was a huge relief when Molly saw a second nurse approaching with a jug of water, relieved to be able to rid herself of the cotton feeling in her mouth, and hopefully a little of the nausea, too. As she drank her second glass, she watched Sherlock and their son, the little boy now sprawled up against his father's shoulder. It was clear that the consulting detective was utterly smitten with his son; Molly had seen how open and affectionate he could be with Rosie, but this was something different, another level entirely. It was everything she hadn't dared hope for when she discovered she was pregnant – in fact, no, it was more, because their own relationship had grown so much stronger over the past eight months, to the point that it felt like they'd been doing this for years.

The nurse had just asked her whether she could manage anything to eat when Molly heard a high-pitched stuttering noise – a quick glance to Sherlock told her that their son was waking from his sleep. She could just about see the baby screwing up his face, gearing up for another test of his lungs. Almost instantly, Molly felt the physical response she'd read about, her body telling her with some certainty that she needed to act to satisfy her baby's hunger.

Another look across to Sherlock more or less confirmed this, as their son started to peck insistently at his shoulder. Sherlock's gaze flicked up to meet hers, his face an almost comically-perfect blend of confusion and alarm as he held the baby at a slight distance from his body to try to avert the assault on his shirt.

"I think he's woken up hungry," the nurse said with a smile. "Do you want me to send one of the midwives in to help you give it a go?"

Molly nodded, caught somewhere between apprehension and burgeoning excitement. She'd had fifteen minutes of rest since she'd come around from the anaesthetic and that was probably all she was going to be granted – and she'd better get used to it. Despite that weighty thought, it was hard not to laugh at the sight of Sherlock trying to appease an increasingly frantic baby, who now seemed convinced that nobody was ever going to placate his hunger.

"Believe me when I tell you that's just not going to work, young man," Sherlock was saying, as their son practically head-butted him in an attempt to gain access to what his rooting instincts told him he needed. "Not just anyone will do for this particular job; you're going to have to show a little more patience or you'll end up making a spectacle of yourself, and considering you're less than an hour old, that would be a pretty poor show even by Holmes standards."

A short while later – to Molly's delight and amazement – it seemed to be working. She had surrendered to the midwife's somewhat hands-on approach (Mary's comments about dignity going out of the window now made sense), but the result was that her son was quiet, content and seemed to be getting what he needed. Molly didn't dare move a muscle, afraid that any slight shift in posture would affect the magic balance they seemed to have achieved.

"You're both doing very well for first-timers," the midwife smiled. "He's got a lovely latch there. Clever boy."

Molly couldn't help but smile, wondering whether her son would come to love being reminded of his intelligence as much as his father did.

Now that he was awake (and not screaming), Molly could finally see their son's big, beautiful eyes as he focused single-mindedly on his feed – dark at the moment, but she knew it was too early to tell whether they would stay that way. If it turned out he _had_ inherited Sherlock's eyes – and learned how to use them to his advantage - the world, Molly mused, was going to be in a lot of trouble.

When she glanced up at Sherlock, she found those very eyes on her, watching them both. His elbow was on the arm of the chair, his knuckles supporting his jaw, and the expression on his face was thoughtful – not focused and taut like when he was working through a deduction, but as though he was taking it all in. When their eyes met, a smile appeared. Molly wondered whether, like her, he was thinking about how far they'd come – how completely and utterly implausible any of this would have seemed even a year ago. The component parts had always been there, Molly believed, but it had just taken them a while to assemble them in the right order.

"Can I…" Sherlock began. "Can I sit with you?"

He looked hesitant, perhaps worried he might be interrupting some sacred moment between mother and child.

Molly smiled and beckoned him over. He carefully lowered himself onto the bed beside her, his left leg tucked under his right, which still rested on the floor. She shifted a little to allow him to put his arm around her shoulders, the warmth of his body at her side more welcome than ever. His other hand reached out to stroke the top of their son's head, and Molly heard him utter a quiet hum of satisfaction. As she glanced up at him, he leaned down to capture her lips in another slow, meditative kiss, his fingers moving from their son's head to cup her jaw.

"Thank you," he whispered, when they parted.

"For what, Sherlock?"

"For giving me what I never imagined that I could have. For helping me to be the man you thought I already was, the man I never knew that I could be."

Molly smiled, touching her forehead to his.

"It was easy," she replied, smiling. "I had good material to work with."

Sherlock gave an amused snort, as though saying he knew full well that wasn't true.

There was a moment of contented silence, and Molly watched Sherlock's fingers stroke up and down the length of the flawless pink skin of their son's hand and wrist. Though nothing seemed to distract their child from the task at hand.

"Molly…"

"Hmm?"

She looked up to see that his brow was furrowed, as though grappling with something.

"I love you. I love you, and I never want that to be in doubt, ever again," he said, lacing his fingers through her hand that rested on the baby's side. "This isn't exactly how I'd seen myself doing this – although I hadn't really decided how I saw myself doing this, even though I haven't been able to think about much else for the past seven months, and I know my timing might not be perfect and that we're both tired and quite probably in shock – but…Molly…will you marry me?"

Keeping up with the flow of his words had taken some concentration, and it took Molly a second to register the question on the end of it.

"W-what?"

"I don't have a ring, I'm sorry," he said, hurriedly, blinking. "What I mean to say is that I don't have a ring _with me_ – I have a ring, and John can attest to the fact that I've been carrying it around like a dolt for months, but I don't have it to give to you now, this minute. I'm sorry, Molly, I haven't done a very good job of this."

Molly felt her heart contract at his words, his face now a mixture of anxiety, self-doubt and boyish hope. She pursed her lips, frowning a little, before meeting his gaze.

"Mrs Hudson didn't put you up to this, did she?"

"What? No!"

He looked alarmed.

"It's just that earlier today, she may possibly have heard me refer to you as my husband."

She felt the smile on her face grow as one started to appear on Sherlock's face too, along with at least a fraction of his usual confidence.

"So…that sounds like you might be amenable to the idea…?"

Molly grinned, risking moving her hand from underneath their son to cradle his cheek.

"Of course I'll marry you, you silly sod! I love you!" she replied. "I'd marry you right here, right now, wearing this bloody awful gown and with all of these wires and tubes sticking out of various bits of me."

By now, Sherlock was beaming from ear to ear, looking down at her with an intensity that years ago used to make her flinch, but in which now she was happy to lose herself.

"Perhaps we need to have rules about not swearing in front of the boy," he smirked. "Although…exceptional circumstances."

"I'd say so," she replied softly, reaching up again to bring his face down to meet hers.

After a few moments, he broke the kiss.

"You know I'm not just asking because I knocked you up, yes? Because even I know that would be a Bit Not Good."

Molly smiled, eyeing him sideways.

"I think I know you better than that, Sherlock."

"Good. Although if I left it much longer, I fear my mother might have taken it upon herself to put a shotgun to my back."

"I always did like your mum," Molly said, smiling against his mouth.

She thought back to earlier that day – eating toast with a mug of tea balanced on her bump, writing out thankyou cards for Christmas gifts, wrestling herself into her decent maternity dress (god knows where _that_ was now) so she could go out with Mrs Hudson. And Toby – he would be sulking in vengeful cat fury at the lack of the promised posh tuna. All of that, a matters of hours ago, and here she was – a mother, and now, completely unexpectedly, she was engaged, too.

"So…there's a ring?" she asked, grinning, still feeling as though she might have created this thread of conversation from the fug of general anaesthesia.

"Yeeesss, there's a ring," Sherlock repeated, as though humouring her in her excitement. "A really good one. At one point there was a really good speech, too, but on that score I'm afraid the ship may have already sailed."

"That's okay," she told him. "I'm quite fond of the one you ended up with."

He laughed, and Molly noted a slight pinking of his cheeks.

"Plus, it will make a good story to tell this little one in a few years," Molly added.

"Mmm. I look forward to it," Sherlock replied.

For some reason, when Molly had allowed herself to daydream about how life with their child might be, she always saw Sherlock as a storyteller – reading books under the covers at bedtime, spinning tall tales in dens made out of furniture. Although it was a lot to ask, perhaps parenthood could help Sherlock to rediscover the childhood that was so abruptly cut short.

"Too much excitement for some people," Sherlock murmured, and at first Molly thought he was referring to her, before realising he was nodding towards their son. Their son, who had apparently dropped off to sleep in a milk-induced haze. With a little awkwardness – feeling as though she was all elbows – Molly managed to rearrange her clothing while more or less balancing the baby in place.

"Here, let me," Sherlock said, holding out his hands. Taking the baby – his large hands almost covering him completely – Sherlock hoisted him to his shoulder and started to rub soft circles into his back.

"Isn't this supposed to do something?" he asked after a minute or so.

At that moment, and without opening his eyes, their son emitted what seemed like a ridiculously loud burp for someone of his size. Molly had to suppress her laughter for fear of waking him, instead burying her face in Sherlock's arm.

"Good man," Sherlock nodded sagely. "Better out than in. Or that's the rule your uncle John lives by anyway."

The baby twisted a little before settling into a more contented sleep, and Molly realised that this little bubble in which they were currently existing would only last so long. Soon, there would be other people, and routines, and stress, and worry, and amazing changes, and (eventually, she assumed) wedding plans, but this hour of their life would always stay with her. It struck her that perhaps she should have been taking photographs (in fact, nobody would believe that Sherlock hadn't once had his phone out), but there would be a lifetime of photos – and this way, the only people who had access to this moment, or memories of it, were her and Sherlock. And that felt right.

"I imagine when visiting time comes, people might want to know whether he has a name," Sherlock said, sliding his hand across the bed to take hers.

"Yeah, I imagine they will," she replied, smiling.

Sherlock caught her gaze with his.

"Are we still in agreement?"

Molly nodded.

"Mm-hm. Although…I had an idea about that. Something I wanted to add, something I thought might be nice – I mean, if you were okay with it, too."

Sherlock looked at her, cocking a quizzical eyebrow.

"Should I be afraid to ask…?"


	17. Chapter 17

"William John Bartholomew Hooper-Holmes."

Sherlock looked across to Molly as she made the big reveal to their friends, and the quiet pride in her voice made his chest surge with warmth. It was a couple of hours later, official visiting time, and the small private room in which Molly had been fortunate enough to be in was now not quite so private. Their son had demanded a second feed a short while ago, and had dropped off to sleep again in Molly's arms, completely unaware of his adoring audience.

It had taken everyone a few seconds to react, and Sherlock noted that everyone did so differently. He caught John's eye and saw a smile pull at the corners of his mouth.

"Wow, that is a big name for a little nipper!" Lestrade responded, wide-eyed. Trust Greg to state the obvious.

"It's absolutely darling!" Mrs Hudson cooed. "Just like him."

Their landlady had muscled her way as close to Molly's bed as possible, practically elbowing Sherlock out of the way to get a closer look at their little boy.

"Oh, look at him!" Mrs Hudson continued. "Look at those little cheeks. Isn't he just the most beautiful little thing you've ever seen?"

"Don't listen to her, Rosie," said John, putting his hands over his daughter's ears.

"Oh, shush, John Watson!" Mrs Hudson told him. "Rosie's my beautiful girl and now I've got a wonderful, beautiful boy, too."

Sherlock glanced down at Molly, who met his gaze and his smile. It looked very likely that of all of the things he had achieved in life, the international reputation he had attained, the countless serious threats to the British public that he had foiled, _this_ was now the standard by which Mrs Hudson would judge him. Must be worth at least a few trays of gingersnaps over the next couple of weeks, anyway.

"Where did _Bartholomew_ come from?" Lestrade asked, snagging a grape from the punnet recently placed on the side table by John. "Is it something to do with all Holmes men having to have at least one slightly ridiculous name?"

"Silly!" Mrs Hudson tutted, taking her eyes away from the baby long enough to swat Lestrade's arm. "St Bartholomew's is where Sherlock and Molly met, where they fell in love."

Sherlock felt his cheeks start to burn, but the softness in Mrs Hudson's gaze made it impossible to give a glib reply, to even try to deny it. Especially when he felt Molly's fingers tug at his, curling around them. It was broadly true, he supposed; the kindling of his feelings for Molly must have begun in the path lab and the morgue, even if he hadn't consciously been aware of it – or able to recognise and accept it for what it was.

"And now Bartholomew's was where this little one was born," Mrs Hudson added, chucking a finger gently under his son's chin. "It's perfect!"

"God, he wasn't conceived here, too, was he?" Greg said, with a look of mild horror on his face.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the detective inspector, at the same time as Mrs Hudson turned to chastise him. The combination of both seemed to be enough for Lestrade to give a wave of apology. Probably no need for Greg to know about the several occasions during Molly's second trimester where she had 'summoned' him to the lab in what he understood – by common parlance – to be a 'booty call'. Those hot, hasty trysts in the lab storage cupboard had been pretty breath-taking, if not always particularly comfortable.

"Um, there is something else, too," Molly said, and she looked across to him questioningly, seeking his consent. "Bart's is...it's now also the place we, um, got engaged."

The poker face that she had been trying to contain was now replaced by a beautiful, Mollyish smile, and Sherlock was surprised by the physical response he had to hearing those words. Having it reaffirmed.

"Oh my god, really?" Lestrade said, gaping.

"Oh, Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed, clapping a hand to her chest. "You finally asked her! I was starting to wonder whether you'd _ever_ get around to it."

Sherlock eyed her suspiciously, catching Molly's eye too as he did so. There was something slightly off about his landlady's reaction, something she was holding back.

"Mrs Hudson?" he asked, pointedly.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, but if you will insist on me doing your dry-cleaning," his landlady replied. "I'm afraid I came across the jewellery box in your coat a few weeks ago. Popped it into the pocket of your other one and hoped you wouldn't notice."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"So...am I the only one in this room who didn't know you were going to propose?" Molly asked, reaching across with her free hand to take his and tug him over to the bed. She was grinning - not annoyed, thank god.

"Well, _I_ had no idea," Greg replied. "But then I'm used to that feeling."

"If it's any consolation, Molly, I don't think Rosie knew either," John smiled, smoothing down his daughter's hair. Balancing Rosie high on one hip, he came over to the bed and bent low enough to hug Molly with one arm, planting a quick kiss on her cheek.

"Congratulations, Molly," he smiled, before turning to Sherlock with his arm open. "Come here, mate!"

Sherlock accepted his embrace willingly, helping to support Rosie's weight as she was sandwiched inside of the hug.

"You've had quite a day, Sherlock," John said, grinning, "You don't do things by halves, do you?"

"Apparently not," Sherlock replied, meeting Molly's eye over John's shoulder, catching another glimpse of their beautiful little boy. As John stood back, Rosie reached for Sherlock and he took her into his arms, where she immediately started to play with his curls (apparently her new favourite thing – he feared for the day she had the dexterity to come at him with hair-slides and other hair-related fripperies).

"So...John, eh?" John said, practically puffing up his chest.

Sherlock tilted his head, composed himself.

"Yes," he replied, airily. "An old family name of mine; belonged to a dear cousin twice removed on my mother's side."

"Git."

Sherlock smirked, and the two of them dissolved into laughter.

"Well, I am flattered, Sherlock, Molly," John said, looking between them. "Really, it means a lot."

"Do you want to hold him?" Molly offered.

John glanced around for a moment, seemingly unsure as to whether the offer was meant for him.

"Ah…yeah," he said. "Hopefully I haven't lost the knack."

Sherlock watched as John sat on the side of the bed and allowed Molly to carefully manoeuvre a still-sleeping William into his arms. It was an oddly moving thing to see, and Sherlock suddenly felt a pang of something, recalling how he'd turned down the opportunity to hold a newborn Rosie - only doing so some days later, when Mary had practically plonked the infant in his lap.

"Come along, Rosamund," Sherlock said, carrying Rosie across to the bed with him. "Come and meet your new cousin."

Molly made space for them alongside her, enough for Sherlock to sit with Rosie perched on his knee, close to where John sat with William. It was still so hard to fathom, that the child there in front of him was _his_ – that he was now a father, as opposed to a few hours earlier, when he'd just been some idiot obliviously bumbling around in a disused Tube tunnel with his best friend. Sherlock wondered when this feeling of unreality, of wonderment would wear off – and suspected that John would tell him it never would.

At first, Rosie seemed more interested in the helium balloon that she herself had bought as a 'gift' for William – and which was now tethered to the bedrail - but eventually Sherlock was able to divert her attention.

"Baby?" Rosie asked, pointing.

"Mm-hm," Sherlock nodded. "William."

"Baby," Rosie repeated, twisting around to point at Molly's stomach.

Molly laughed softly.

"Not any more, Rosie," she said, stretching out her hand to stroke Rosie's hair. "That's where the baby was, but now he's here. He's Uncle Sherlock and Aunty Molly's baby. He's called William – can you say that?"

Rosie looked at Molly with what looked like toddler scepticism, and made no attempt to repeat the baby's name.

"It's okay, Rosie," John said, taking his daughter's hand. "I'll be giving him back soon. William's going to live upstairs from us."

"Meow?"

John laughed.

"Yes, upstairs with Toby," he confirmed. "Uncle Sherlock, Aunty Molly, baby William and Toby. That'll be nice, won't it?"

Again, Sherlock noted his goddaughter's expression of mistrust. Good for her.

"Oh, that reminds me!" Mrs Hudson chirped up. "I'll take Toby in for a few days, just while you all settle in. Cats can be a bit jealous around newborns, can't they?"

"Keep him as long as you like," Sherlock replied, earning a sharp nudge in the ribs from his fiancée ( _fiancée!_ ). Considering she was recovering from significant emergency surgery, she still had some fight in her – which was immensely reassuring.

"That would be lovely, thank you, Martha," Molly said. "I hadn't even had the chance to think about Toby with everything that's happened. I'd promised him something special for tea tonight, too."

"I'm sure I've got a can of salmon in the cupboard," Mrs Hudson said with a wink. "Just this once, eh?"

"Is that the good salmon, the kind you put in the little sandwiches with cucumber and dill?" Sherlock queried. "Seems rather wasted on that ungrateful moggy."

"I think it might be time to stop picking fights with Molly's cat, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson replied. "After all, you've got more important things to keep you busy now…although I'll make you some of those sandwiches you like if you let me have my turn with that gorgeous son of yours."

"I've got the hint," John said, moving off the bed to transfer William to Mrs Hudson's waiting arms. Rosie immediately scrambled over to him, holding out her arms to reclaim her father from the newborn usurper.

Sherlock scooted further onto the bed to be closer to Molly, encouraging her to lean against him. She looked pale, rung out, and he knew that more than anything she needed to rest, to recover – but he also knew that she would never deny her friends this experience. He wrapped his arm around her and placed another kiss in her hair, feeling her smile against his cheek.

"So, Sherlock, have you told your parents and Mycroft the good news yet?" John asked, with more than a hint of mirth in his voice. "Or does Mycroft have all of the maternity wards in London under surveillance?"

"My parents are aware of their grandson's early arrival, yes," Sherlock replied. "It took all of my powers of diplomacy – and yes, John, I _do_ have _some_ – to persuade them not to jump on the last train to London. Instead, I fear they will be descending on us tomorrow with the force of a small tornado."

The call - which he had made while Molly slept, and while holding his sleeping son - was probably the first time he hadn't dreaded a phone conversation with his parents. As usual, his mother had ended up in tears, but for once it wasn't fuelled by disappointed or concern for his wellbeing. She had used the word 'proud' more than once, told him that she loved him, ordered him to take care of Molly and entreated him to send her a photograph of her new grandson as soon as was humanly and technologically possible. He had obliged moments later, saving the resulting picture as the new wallpaper on his phone as well. No doubt news of William's birth had now reached even the darkest corners of West Sussex.

"And Mycroft?" Greg prompted. "Where is the proud uncle, anyway?"

"Carrying on his tired affectation of being aloof and elusive, apparently," Sherlock replied.

A simple text had been fired off to his brother, containing the basic facts: **Your nephew has arrived. Bart's hospital. Already has more hair than you – SH.**

The reply was somewhat leisurely in replying, and Sherlock had pictured Mycroft calculating precisely how long to leave it before sending a response – couldn't possibly be seen to have _too_ much interest in such emotionally-wrought affairs.

 **Congratulations, brother mine. I trust mother and child are doing well.**

It hadn't been posed as a question, so Sherlock didn't treat it as one. Another text had come through some time later, while Molly was sleeping.

 **Name and NHS number?**

Carefully checking his son's ankle tag, Sherlock had sent back the required details. Mycroft, he knew, would already be outlining and setting into motion William's ongoing security needs. Molly would hate it, but he was ready to argue the case if needed. Something else had occurred to him, and he'd thumbed a quick addition:

 **Not sure if surname may change long-term - SH**

 **Easily remedied if required. I would offer felicitations if it didn't mean attending another family social occasion.**

"He'll come 'round soon enough," Greg replied. "He's softer than he looks."

"Hard to believe that's actually possible," Sherlock said.

"Well, he's missing out," Mrs Hudson put in, smiling down at William. "This little sweetheart is good enough to eat."

"Another good reason to keep him away from my brother," Sherlock quipped, once again earning a gentle shove from Molly.

"So, um, while you're all here," Molly said, as Sherlock felt her fingers lace with his. "I… _we_ would like to ask you whether you'd consider being William's godparents? It would mean…it would mean a lot to us."

All three sets of eyes were suddenly on her, although Lestrade's open-mouthed gawp of a reaction was most notable. How did the man ever manage to successfully intimidate criminal suspects?

"What, me as well?" Lestrade asked.

Molly nodded.

"I'd be honoured," John replied. "Provided there's cake, of course – eh, Sherlock?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, accepting the good-natured ribbing. He hadn't actually considered that there might be any formal ceremony to this godparent business – neither he nor Molly had any spiritual or religious leanings – but he could probably cope with some kind of vague, cake-based acknowledgement of their friends' new roles.

"Oh, Molly, that would be lovely!" Mrs Hudson declared. "And I'm sure Rosie can share me with this little dear."

"What do you say, Lestrade?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, I was there when the pair of you met," Greg replied, rocking back on his heels. "And I've known you longer than anyone else in the room, Sherlock, so I can tell the little lad all the best stories about his old man."

"And by 'best', I assume you mean-?"

"Most embarrassing, yeah, obviously," Greg confirmed with a wink.

"No cake for you," Sherlock told him.

This was what came of asking an officer of the law to have anything to do with your offspring. And he really didn't want Lestrade telling William what a wanker he'd been towards his mummy in the early days (or should that be years?)

Lestrade insisted on having his turn holding William, too, and Sherlock found himself oddly restless, realising he was itching to have his son back in his own arms. He was deeply grateful to the friends in this room – not least for the role each had played in getting his little family through this turbulent day – but right now, selfishly perhaps, he wanted to be alone again with Molly and their son. To take care of them, to have space to chart each little moment.

"Oh, 'ang on," Greg said, frowning a little. "I think he's waking up."

Sure enough, there was soon a pair of dark, round eyes searching for signs of recognition in the face looking down on him - and finding none, William began to make his distress and confusion known.

"He's probably hungry again," Molly said. "It's every hour at the moment."

"Hold on, mate, I'll give you back to your mum," Lestrade said, edging to the bed to allow Molly to take the now flailing and red-faced William. Sherlock couldn't help but admire the calm way in which she did this, how she seemed to be taking motherhood in her stride from the start – but then John would probably say that she'd already had plenty of practice with willful infants.

"We'll get you fed, sweetheart, don't worry," Molly said, touching her lips to William's forehead. "And then Daddy's going to have a go changing his first nappy."

Sherlock's head snapped up.

"Am I?"

"Mm-hmm," Molly smiled.

"Almost a shame that we've got to leave," John grinned, waggling his eyebrows at Sherlock. "It's past Rosie's bedtime."

Sherlock suspected that John understood the craving he felt for breathing space, for alone-time with his new family.

"Lift home, Mrs H?" John added.

Mrs Hudson accepted, starting to gather together her things and say her goodbyes.

"I'd better be off, too," Lestrade said. "Early shift in the morning. Make sure you document that nappy-change, Molls – I can't believe that Sherlock Holmes is good at _everything_ first time."

The much-demanded feed was underway by the time everyone gave their farewells and trouped out of the room. Molly made way for Sherlock on the bed again, and he settled beside her, his arm across the back of the bed. From over Molly's shoulder, he watched his son; despite the concentration on his face, his eyes were darting about, millions of brain connections being made as he took everything in.

"What time are you staying till?" Molly murmured.

"I'm not leaving," he replied.

Molly laughed.

"Sherlock, you have to go home. They won't let you just camp out here."

"But what would I do?" he asked. He was puzzled that there was even a question mark over any of this.

Again, Molly giggled.

"Well, have a shower for one thing," she replied.

"What are you saying, Dr Hooper? I thought you liked my manly musk?"

"I think this is less 'manly musk' and more 'scent of panic'."

Sherlock gave his underarms a quick sniff and concurred that Molly was correct. He must have sweated right through his shirt in the run-up to William's birth, and he didn't need to look in a mirror to know that his usual standards of appearance had slipped. Better get used to that.

"You have a shower right here," he pointed out.

"And you'll wear what? My spare pyjamas?" Molly asked, raising her eyebrows at him. "Wearing a bedsheet is _definitely_ out of the question this time, Sherlock."

He rolled his eyes.

"I'll improvise," he assured her. "But I'm not going anywhere. What would be the point? Everything is right here."

Molly smiled and tilted her head up to kiss him. The kiss was soft and unhurried, and reflected their mutual exhaustion, but he felt her smiling against his mouth.

"Well, I appreciate the sentiment," she said softly. "Even if they do decide to kick you out on your arse."

Sherlock snorted.

"Don't worry," Molly added, in her most innocent tone. "I'll make sure you have time to change William's nappy before you go."


	18. Chapter 18

**_Written especially for anyone who requested a glimpse of Uncle Mycroft…_**

 ** _Enjoy!_**

0000000000000000

It was shortly after ten o'clock when Sherlock jerked awake; the fact that he'd even been asleep was a surprise. Given that one thing that most people undertaking a hospital stay need is rest, it seemed surprisingly hard to fall asleep in a hospital. It hadn't, he mused, ever been a problem for him in the past – but then on those occasions he'd either been in an induced coma, technically dead or pumped full of some particularly heavy-duty painkillers. Now, however, he was trying to make himself comfortable on two high-backed armchairs pushed together, and only had the spare pillow and thin bedcover because one of the midwives on nightshift took pity on him.

There had been a surprising number of interruptions, too, as nurses came in and out of the room doling out painkillers, taking BP readings, monitoring oxygen levels and checking the drip. And every bloody time they turned on the bloody overhead lights! Sherlock wanted to growl at them to leave Molly alone to rest, but he knew he was there very much as a guest of their good graces, and didn't fancy being turfed out into West Smithfield late at night and having to make his way home alone. Plus, the rational part of his brain reminded himself that only a few hours ago, his fiancée (novelty of _that_ hadn't worn off yet) had been gravely ill and, quite rightly, needed more than just his well-intentioned company.

Stretching his limbs as he unfolded himself from his so-called bed, Sherlock set about carrying out his own rounds. William had finally passed out, drunk on milk, around eight-thirty, and Molly had followed him not long after. Sherlock looked at her, lying on her side with her hair still tied back in a loose ponytail, one arm snaking underneath the pillow; she'd gone through all of this for _him_ , for _them_. Thank god men weren't asked to do the same, Sherlock considered, or the population would plummet. Gently, he moved a few strands of hair away from Molly's eyes, and placed a kiss on her cheekbone.

To the left of the bed, William lay sleeping flat on his little back in the strange, transparent tank. Both arms were thrown above his head as though in surrender, his ribs quickly rising and falling with his rapid heartbeat. As Sherlock watched, he saw that his son was making intermittent sucking motions in his sleep, his little forehead wrinkling in concentration. It was, he had to concede, adorable. Dear god, was he going to become one of those unbearable people who acted as though nobody else in the history of the world had had a baby before him? Nevertheless, he bent to kiss William's forehead, causing his son to wriggle a little in his sleep – probably the stubble, Sherlock realised. He'd managed to have a shower since John and the others left, but shaving would have to wait.

The room still smelled of dinner, which had been a cut above typical hospital food. In fact, it was his familiarity with hospital food – Bart's staff canteen food, to be precise – that had prompted Sherlock to call in another favour. Not only had Angelo sent along generous servings of his best tortellini and Puttanesca as requested, but also stashed in the carrier bag was a cannolo big enough for two and a half-size bottle of Cava (which, Molly had lamented, would have to wait a few months). Of course, a visit to his restaurant from the 'bambino' was expected in return.

Sherlock had just sat down again when he heard a buzz from his phone. Digging it out from his jacket on the back of the chair, he saw that he'd received a text – probably his mother again, who had sent him more messages that evening than she'd sent in the previous year. He swiped down the screen to open the message…

 **Too late an hour for visiting?**

He looked up sharply, then across to the door. Nobody could be seen through the glass panel. He quietly got up and let himself out of the room; the corridor was quiet too, which was surprising given the almost constant chorus of unhappy newborns that had emanated from the wards all evening.

Sherlock didn't have to look far before he saw Mycroft hovering at the end of the hallway, umbrella at his side, looking about as out of place as a penguin in the jungle.

"Security has really gone downhill around here," Sherlock said, ambling towards his brother.

Mycroft gave him a thin smile.

"I'm intrigued by the new look, Sherlock," he replied. "Or have you been impersonating medical staff again?"

Sherlock had almost forgotten that he was wearing a set of green scrubs, procured for him by Mike Stamford when he'd come up to visit after his shift. They were surprisingly comfortable as makeshift pyjamas, though the scent of industrial laundry detergent was less subtle than he would have liked.

"Have you come all this way to insult my sartorial choices?" he asked, folding his arms.

"A serendipitous bonus," Mycroft replied. "However, I understand that you have had somewhat of a tumultuous day and so…here I am."

"Did Mummy send you?" Sherlock asked, frowning.

"Of my own volition," he replied with a smile that Sherlock assumed was supposed to be enigmatic. "Have you taken up residence here? I'm surprised they permit that sort of thing."

"It helps when the hospital registrar is a fan."

"Of your work?" Mycroft scoffed.

"No, of Molly's," Sherlock told him. "Something to do with a court case she worked on last year; I'm not sure."

Mycroft nodded.

"How is Molly?"

"Sleeping," Sherlock replied. "But aside from the exhaustion and the undoubted discomfort – neither of which she will complain about – she's okay. Putting me to shame."

"Made of sterner stuff," Mycroft observed, leaving Sherlock unsure as to whether he was referring to Molly or to women in general. "And the heir-apparent?"

"Perfect. And also sleeping."

"Ah. Good."

It actually looked as though his brother was on the verge of leaving, as though his business there was concluded. None of this was remotely within Mycroft's area, and it showed.

"You've come all this way, Mycroft," Sherlock said. "You may as well have a look at your nephew."

His brother swallowed, looking decidedly uncomfortable, and Sherlock smirked.

"He's behind glass, big brother: he's not going to projectile-vomit on your Gieves & Hawkes suit," Sherlock continued. "Nor will you be dangerously exposed to sentiment just by looking at him."

Sherlock walked across to the window that looked into Molly's room, Mycroft appearing at his shoulder a few moments later. Neither of them spoke for a while as they stood side by side, Sherlock absorbed by the sheer unlikelihood of this whole scenario – and the ongoing awe he still felt that the child in front of them was _his_ flesh and blood. His, and the unutterably brave and clever woman he was going to marry.

"You and Molly have every right to feel proud, Sherlock," Mycroft said finally. "He is quite the achievement."

"Yes, he is, isn't he?" Sherlock replied, adding with a wry laugh. "Now all I have to do is make sure I'm not a rubbish dad."

"You won't be doing any of it alone, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "I think you can safely abandon that former mindset."

Sherlock gave his brother a sideways glance, suddenly wondering whether he was speaking from experience.

"How is Lady Smallwood?" he asked.

Keeping his gaze ahead, Mycroft responded with a small nod.

"Well - thank you," he replied. "Alicia sends her warm regards. No doubt she will demand an audience with your son at a convenient date in the future; she seems inexplicably fond of babies."

"Yes, she does," Sherlock replied with a smirk. Mycroft responded with a sarcastic smile, making it clear that he wasn't going to dignify this gibe with an answer.

Mycroft readjusted the overcoat slung over his folded arms.

"So, when can we expect an invitation to your nuptials?" he asked.

"Why? So you can arrange to be out of the country?"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows skyward.

"Were I to do that, our mother would ensure it wouldn't be worth me returning," he said with a sigh of resignation.

Sherlock dug his hands into the pocket of his scrubs.

"Well, I'm planning to defer to Molly when it comes to a wedding," he said. "I don't particularly care about anything aside from the signatures on the certificate."

"So, from that I take it that you waited until you had her agreement on the matter before renting the marquee and booking the string quartet?" Mycroft replied, a sly half-glance in his direction. "Good to know that you plan _some_ major life changes with her knowledge."

Sherlock's head whipped around to look at this brother, who met his stare with an arch of the eyebrow; a challenge.

"How did you-?" he began. Was it possible that the insidious tentacles of his brother's intelligence network could really have uncovered that level of detail?

…of course not. _Now_ he got it.

"Bloody John Watson!" he hissed. "That man is a more atrocious gossip than Mrs Hudson and her entire canasta group."

"Quite," replied Mycroft. "But on this occasion, I intend to hold my peace. I'm not sure I would survive the collective wrath of both our mother and your lady love."

Sherlock wasn't entirely convinced the matter was closed, but in the context of the day – and the rest of his life with Molly, William and whoever else might come along (yes, it had crossed his mind already, despite the trauma of the day's events) – it scarcely seemed important.

"Something else on which I need you to hold your peace," he began. "Mummy and Daddy don't yet know about the engagement, so I would appreciate it if you could act surprised."

"I'm not going to do that."

"Fine, just don't say anything then."

"Why?"

"Because I thought William was enough excitement for one day," Sherlock explained. "And I don't want Mummy leaping ahead and inviting to our wedding every single person she's ever had a passing acquaintance with. I fear she might have started a scrapbook, just on the off-chance."

Mycroft snorted.

They stood side by side for a few moments longer, and Sherlock couldn't help but think about how easy it was at this point; both of them asleep in a secure hospital room, their needs taken care of, him able to watch over them. Soon, they'd be back in the real world, and while Sherlock was impatient to bring their little boy home - for their lives to really start - all of the factors would suddenly be harder to control. It had never been far from his mind during Molly's pregnancy, occupying his thoughts more and more as the due date grew closer.

"Mycroft. You understand that this changes things?" he began. "That William…changes things."

His brother didn't turn, instead locking his hands behind his back and gazing straight ahead at the glass.

"You're referring to the work."

"I can no longer do the British government's dirty work, be your agent for hire whenever there's a situation that calls for it," Sherlock continued.

"Are you announcing your _retirement_?" Mycroft replied, and the hint of glibness in his tone irked Sherlock.

"Of course not," he said. "What the hell else would I do? But even you have to understand, big brother, that I can no longer risk making the kind of enemies that previous 'missions' of yours have thrown in my path. I can't be away from London for months at a time without warning or without contact with home, and I won't allow the possibility of leaving my son without a father…or Molly without a husband."

Mycroft smiled, his gaze dropping to the floor.

"Strikes me as very ordinary, Sherlock, very _pedestrian,_ " he said. "Are you sure you'll manage to occupy that restless mind of yours?"

Sherlock folded his arms across his chest.

"I'll probably get enough through the blog - if I can wade through the cranks, attention-seekers and other dross - and Lestrade can throw me a few cases," he replied. "I'm prepared to lower my benchmark, even by Scotland Yard standards. And surely not all of your assignments have to involve torture and debasement in the far corners of Eastern Europe? I mean, there must be plenty of that going on the Borough of Kensington and Chelsea?"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows again, his mouth turning down at the corners as though considering this.

"As you wish," he replied. "Although forgive me if I feel the need to 'check in with you', as they say, from time to time."

"Forgiven," Sherlock said. "But these days my mind has somewhere to go to rest."

"Hmm."

"And I anticipate being pretty bloody exhausted for at least the next eighteen years, anyway."

Mycroft gave a hum of laughter, and Sherlock couldn't help but join in. Not so long ago, the rest of his life seemed like this vast, sprawling, uncertain thing, and at times he would panic that he was probably only halfway through it (ill-advised drug dalliances notwithstanding). All he could see was more of the same – living only for the chase, for the game – and that had started to feel as though it wasn't enough.

As he was reflecting on this, he spotted the blanket moving in William's crib, a leg kicking free and a tiny arm flailing. His son's timing was impeccable. Sherlock made a move towards the door.

"Wh-what are you doing?" Mycroft said with an amusing stammer.

"Picking him up," Sherlock replied. "That's the general idea when a baby cries, as I understand it."

Before his brother could object any further, Sherlock slipped into the room and went to his son. William had started the stuttering, halting cry that Sherlock was learning was the prelude to an all-out screaming fit. Setting aside the blanket, he slid one hand underneath his son's head and the other underneath the rustly bulk of his bottom, lifting him in a quick motion to his chest.

"Sherlock-?"

Molly's voice was a mumbled, drowsy whisper.

"I'll see if I can settle him," he whispered in reply. "I'll come back if he's insistent."

"Is…is someone out there?" she asked, squinting in the dim light.

"Mycroft doesn't believe in visiting hours," he told her, softly. "Try and go back to sleep."

He murmured soothingly into William's soft hair as he walked with him, gently bouncing him, and encircling his squirming little body with his hands as best he could. William whimpered, mewled, but his cries didn't seem to have any real conviction, and by the time they were out in the hallway, he was only making intermittent protests.

Sherlock was slightly surprised to see that his brother was still there, although he had taken a couple of steps backwards at the sight of the approaching infant. He turned sideways so Mycroft could get the best view of his nephew without having to venture beyond his comfort zone.

"This is him," Sherlock said simply. "And William, this is your big, powerful, scary uncle. Although we tend to call him Mycroft…or other things, when he isn't being nice."

Sherlock saw Mycroft peering over, a slight betrayal of his attempt at cool detachment.

"Yes," he replied, thoughtfully. "Definitely the Holmes jawline. I trust he has avoided the unfortunate webbed toes that afflict the cousins on our mother's side?"

Sherlock snorted, the huff of his breath temporarily causing William to wriggle. But the direction of the conversation reminded him of something.

"I need to ask another favour," he began. "After you leave, I will send you a photograph. Could you ensure that it reaches our sister?"

Mycroft's brow furrowed for a moment, then relaxed again.

"If that's definitely what you want," he replied.

Sherlock nodded resolutely.

"It is. Thank you."

"Then I think it's probably time for me to take my leave," Mycroft said, taking out his pocket watch as though to confirm. "I'm expecting a call from a thoroughly unpleasant chap in Saudi Arabia. International diplomacy really does eat into one's leisure time."

It was then that Sherlock remembered something. That evening, after John and the others had left, a courier had delivered a basket of tea and cakes from Claridge's, along with some flowers (it was perhaps one of the few advantages of having a medical emergency in a five-star hotel). Most of the cakes had been donated to the nurses' station.

Without thinking, Sherlock held out his son to Mycroft.

"Here."

"Sherlock, where are you going?" demanded Mycroft, suddenly finding a wriggling William in his arms. The terror and panic had caused his voice go amusingly high at the end.

"Giving you some alone-time with your nephew," he called over his shoulder. "Thirty seconds, Mycroft. And he's not a patience grenade."

He ducked back into Molly's room and emerged soon after with a small box. His brother's face was still a picture, particularly now that William had apparently realised that he didn't recognize the smell of this particular human and was starting to show his disquiet.

"I think…it seems like he wants something," Mycroft floundered.

"Hungry, probably," Sherlock replied, shrugging. "Like you, he's happiest when he's eating."

Mycroft looked aghast – not surprising given that William was now well and truly putting his rooting instincts into practice, making concerted attacks against his uncle's tailored waistcoat.

"Well, aren't you going to do something about it?"

"Not me personally, no – that wouldn't work," Sherlock replied, suppressing a smile, enjoying this too much. "But I will facilitate, yes."

Sherlock scooped his son out of his uncle's arms, dropping a reassuring kiss onto William's head while in transit – god knows it must be a traumatizing experience to suddenly find yourself in the custody of Mycroft Holmes – and bringing him to his chest.

"Here," Sherlock said, thrusting the small box in his brother's direction. "I believe lemon drizzle is one of your favourites. Well, in the top fifty anyway."

Mycroft looked down at the box in his hand, taking a few seconds to catch up with things.

"Ah. Yes. Thank you," he replied, straightening his tie. "I'm sure this will be…ah…very welcome with a pot of Earl Grey tomorrow."

William was started to gnaw on Sherlock's shoulder now, issuing frustrated squawks at the fact that it wasn't producing the right results. Sherlock stroked the back of his head, briefly wondering at what point – if any – the first sign of curls might appear.

"I expect there will be some sort of get-together at some point," he told his brother. "Cake included, most likely. Will you be busy?"

Mycroft's eyes flicked towards him and away again.

"I may be able to clear my schedule," he said eventually, starting to recover his usual demeanour. "I must bid you _adieu_ , brother mine. Please give my regards to your fiancée."

He made as though to leave, but stopped almost straight away.

"My heartfelt congratulations again, Sherlock," he said. "Sherrinford is certainly beginning to seem like a foreign land in a different time."

Sherlock nodded, watching his brother's figure retreat down the corridor. He agreed with Mycroft to a greater extent, but he knew he could never truly consign the events on the island prison to the past – any more than John could file away Mary's death as something that belonged to a different era. And even if he could, should he? Would he make that choice? He was gradually building some semblance of a relationship with his sister, and while he was only a short distance along what would undoubtedly be a very long road, the importance of it couldn't be overstated. And ultimately, when he looked at the woman he loved and at the baby in his arms, memories of Sherrinford were never far away – because Sherrinford pried open his heart, became the unexpected catalyst for his new life. And that's what would help him overcome the nightmares.

"Okay, okay, Master William," Sherlock said, shifting his son from one drool-damp shoulder to the other. "Time to go and wake up Mummy. Let's be nice to her, hmm? None of this caterwauling."

As his hand paused on the door-handle, Sherlock breathed in the scent of his son's soft scalp once more. Once he had delivered William to Molly, he knew the rest of his night would be devoted to his Mind Palace – after all, it was amazing the difference that five hours could make, and he didn't want to lose a moment of it.


	19. Chapter 19

**_I had a touch of writer's block approaching this chapter, and this was actually only meant to be a short section of a larger chapter - but it just seemed to keep writing itself. Just a fluffy interlude, really, prior to a meeting with the grandparents…._**

Molly knew from regularly checking her own charts that she wasn't going to need a blood transfusion after all, which was a relief, as it meant she was one step closer to getting home. Sherlock, she knew, was impatient for this, too, even though he insisted she needed as much care as the maternity unit was willing to give her. When she'd shuffled through to the communal area on the ward to collect her breakfast (snagging an extra piece of toast and some marmalade for Sherlock, too), she'd heard some of the other new mothers jokily complaining about spending New Year's Eve in the hospital – something, of course, that she did more often than not, although usually with a bone-saw in her hand.

It seemed amazing that she was on her feet already (the midwives had no time for idlers), and once the catheter was removed (childbirth was _so_ sexy) and she was able to stop dragging the drip around with her, Molly felt cautiously optimistic about recovery. Sherlock, she knew, had barely slept the previous night, the one time that he really needed it, poor man. She'd laughed when she came back with their breakfast to find him slumped, asleep, in one of the armchairs, William flat out on his chest (wearing the same zonked expression his father wore when asleep face-down on a pillow).

She'd managed to convince Sherlock to go home for a few hours during New Year's Eve, so he could get some proper sleep and a change of clothes. Most of that day had been a cycle of feeds, nappy changes, medical checks (for them both) and attempted naps, although it had been lovely when some of her colleagues from Pathology popped in to visit. Meena was spending New Year in Australia, but had responded to Molly's news with a torrent of texts full of capital letters, expletives and exclamation marks, demanding a Skype conversation – including an audience with William - as soon as Molly was out of hospital. The last message had asked Molly to give Meena's regards to 'Detective Sexy', which had made her laugh – it had been how her friend referred to Sherlock during the early months of Molly's infatuation with him (since then – and certainly until nine months ago - he'd mostly been referred to as 'Detective Dickhead').

And in between all this, she and her son were getting to know each other. Quiet moments, just the two of them, when William was laid out on the bed in front of her, watching her talking to him with a permanent look of curiosity on his face. Staring back, as though trying to figure her out – trying to make a connection in his own way. Deducing her, most likely, she smiled to herself.

Sherlock arrived as evening visiting hours were coming to an end, this time carrying not only Rosie's old car seat (a prerequisite if the hospital was ever going to allow William to leave), but also a camping roll and blanket - army-issue - the property of former Fifth Northumberland Fusilier, Captain John Watson.

"Does he know you borrowed them?" Molly asked, as Sherlock kissed her and deposited the gear on one of the chairs.

"Not as such. I'm counting on the fact that opportunities for wild camping in Marylebone are generally few and far between," Sherlock replied, making a bee-line for his son.

She watched Sherlock lean over the cot where William slept, brushing his long fingers over his son's soft brow.

"Er, does the Ward Sister know you're staying over again?"

Molly had been slightly paranoid that the other women on the ward were grumbling to each other about her, wondering what she'd done for her baby's father to be allowed B&B rights. She decided it probably wasn't paranoia.

"She appeared to quite literally look the other way when I passed the desk," he replied, settling himself on the bed beside her. "Amazing what a few cakes from Claridge's can do."

"And some old-fashioned charm?"

Sherlock tilted his head, although considering this.

"I'd like to think so," he replied. "Although I fear the cakes played a bigger role. Plus a bit of nepotism - you do work here after all."

Molly laughed softly.

"I'll have to repay the debt the next time one of them needs a post-mortem to be fast-tracked."

Sherlock snorted. Thank god he shared her mortuary humour.

"Did you bring food?" Molly asked, smiling sweetly up at him.

"Dear god, woman - I bring you first-rate Italian dining one night, and here you are expecting me to fetch you restaurant-quality cuisine every night thereon in perpetuity!" Sherlock replied, with mock exasperation. Molly grinned, and snuggled into his side.

Sherlock sighed, continuing the pretence of the put-upon fiancé.

"Sang-hoon is sending over a selection of house specials," he said. "Should be here in half an hour."

Molly pulled his face down to hers and planted a chaste kiss on his lips.

"I knew I made the right decision when I agreed to marry you," she grinned.

"A wise woman," he murmured, wrapping his arm around her. "And a lucky man. Always a winning combination."

Sherlock leaned out from the bed again, stroking the back of William's head. Their son was tucked under the blanket up to his neck, snoring slightly – the result, one of the midwives suggested, of perhaps still having some fluid on his lungs after his emergency arrival.

"How's he been?" Sherlock asked.

"This is the longest he's stayed asleep all day," Molly replied. "He insisted on feeding for a full hour earlier, so he's probably exhausted himself."

Sherlock smiled, his gaze still on their son.

"What about you? How do you feel?"

Molly thought about this for a moment, realising her default response of 'fine' wasn't exactly the full story.

"I don't know," she admitted. "I mean, physically I feel pretty good, all things considered, and it feels wonderful that he's here, but being here…I don't know, it still feels a bit unreal, as though I'm still waiting for it all to begin."

Molly had also wondered whether a moment would come when it would all hit her – the trauma of William's arrival, the fear for both her son's life and her son, her family ending before it had even begun – and she would end up a blubbering mess in the corner of the flat somewhere. It seemed possible, even likely. So far, it had been full-steam-ahead, throwing herself into the tasks of new motherhood, being carried along by each medical check, each one a step to be taken on the road to being discharged. What happened when this first flurry of activity tailed off? She would only find out when they set out on their own, when she and Sherlock started to muddle out what family life looked like for them. And that – that was something she was nervously impatient for.

Sherlock appeared to be thinking along the same lines.

"Do you think they'll let you out soon?" he queried.

"Mm. Tomorrow morning, all being well," Molly told him. "What time are your parents coming?"

"Sometime after lunch," he replied. "It seemed like a good idea to persuade them to put off their visit until you and William were at home, but it has occurred to me that without set visiting hours, it may be very difficult to get them to leave."

Molly smiled, settling her hand on Sherlock's stomach.

"You're going to have to indulge them a bit, Sherlock," she told him.

"For how long?"

Molly giggled at the seriousness of his tone.

"Er, eighteen, twenty years?" she replied. "Maybe longer if…you know, William has any siblings."

"And you still think my giving up the cigs is a good idea?" Sherlock sighed, dragging a hand through his curls.

"Well, put it this way, my love – if the cigarettes make a return, you may not get close enough to me for more children to be a real possibility."

"Can't have that," Sherlock murmured, cupping her cheek and leaning in to kiss her. He hadn't really kissed her like this since before William was born - maybe it had felt a little weird in the context and in their current surroundings, Molly supposed. But considering that she was currently anaemically pale, had dark circles under her eyes, and was rocking the alluring combo of no make-up and hair scraped up in a messy bun, it was nice to know that she could still spark that reaction in Sherlock.

"Meena sends her love, by the way," she told Sherlock, when they moved apart, knowing it would get a response from him.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Am I still Detective Knobhead?"

It took Molly a moment to take this in.

"H-how did you know?"

"I think your friend underestimates how much her voice 'carries'," he replied.

Molly bit down on a smile.

"Actually, it was Detective Dickhead - works much better with the alliteration," she said. "And no, she was more complimentary this time. Said you make cute babies."

Molly thought she could almost see Sherlock swell with pride, apparently instantly forgetting the deep animosity that her friend had been directing at him for the past eight years. He was such a sucker for a compliment, particularly one that emphasised his superior genetic material.

Molly leant back against him, reaching an arm up to thread her fingers through his hair, both of them watching their sleeping – and indeed very cute – son.

"I really want to get the two of you home," Sherlock said, tilting his head so that it was resting against hers. "There's so much I want to show him. Is it too soon to get a dog?"

Molly felt her eyes widen of their own accord.

"A what now?"

"A dog. A good one. Every boy needs a dog."

"Is that right?" Molly said, amazed that she was able to formulate the words.

"Mm-hm. And I could use him for my work, so it would be an investment, really."

Molly laughed, pushing a stray strand of hair out of her face.

"Shall we see how we get on with a baby first, Sherlock?" she said, smiling. "Plus, are you forgetting that we have a cat?"

Sherlock's expression was a frown bordering on a pout.

" _You_ have a cat," he replied. "I consider him to be the price I had to pay to get you to move in with me. And he's hardly there anyway, and when he is he's asleep somewhere he shouldn't be – rubbish pet, when you think about it."

"Shush," Molly said, placing a finger to Sherlock's lips. "I won't have you say anything against Toby. Not if you want me to even consider for a second the idea of us getting a dog."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and was clearly about to reply when there was the unmistakable sound of a baby stirring. Before William could wind up in preparation for a good scream, Sherlock was immediately up on his feet and by the side of the cot.

"None of that," Sherlock instructed in low voice, scooping William out of the crib and placing a kiss on his temple. "We need to behave ourselves if we're going to be allowed out of here tomorrow. But I have good news – Mummy says we can get a dog."

"What? I-" Molly protested. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock flashed her a lopsided smile.

"Of course, you'll have to learn what a dog is first," he continued, apparently ignoring her. "But it's going to be a lot of fun. And _we'll_ choose him, of course – just in case Mummy gets any ideas about schnoodles or cockerpoos or some other moronic breed of non-dog. We need a proper dog."

"Stop corrupting our son," Molly ordered - although she noticed as she did so that William had given up on his attempts at crying, and was instead just staring at Sherlock inquiringly. Sherlock was beaming, and held William up so he was facing her.

"Come now, Molly, how can you resist a face like this?"

Molly gave a sarcastic snort.

"Which one?"

"Well, the sprog's, obviously," he replied. "We both know you're powerless to resist _mine_."

Molly rolled her eyes, but made room for Sherlock as he sat down on the bed and lay William on his back between them. The baby seemed overwhelmed by the choice of faces to stare at, but Molly was happy to let Sherlock take over, and when he started talking to William in a soft, low whisper, she could have sworn there was a spark of recognition on William's face. The man with the deep voice who he had heard for many months from within his safe, comfortable cocoon.

"You're going to enjoy Baker Street," Sherlock whispered. "All the best people live there, and it's very conveniently located for seeing the sights - or so I've been told. Proximity to crime scenes has always been of greater personal importance, but perhaps we could discover 'the sights' together."

"Sounds nice," Molly hummed, leaning into Sherlock's arm. "Can I come?"

"Counting on it," Sherlock replied.


	20. Chapter 20

**_Er...so I had intended for Sherlock's parents to turn up in this chapter, but I didn't want to cram too much in, so they're *definitely* going to be in the next one instead. Sherlock has a bit of unfinished business to take care of first, among other things..._**

Sherlock Holmes was not a patient man, which therefore made any interaction with a hospital an extremely testing experience. Around nine o'clock they had been told that the doctor would be there shortly to sign off the discharge papers, and over an hour later they were still waiting. Molly had pointed out to him that delays were commonplace across the health service, including her own area of work – it was just that her clients weren't in a position to complain. Sherlock was well aware that when she first sent him to the café for coffees and then later suggested he take William for a walk around the wards that she was trying to keep him busy – and let's face it, avoid a scene.

But then, shortly before noon on New Year's Day – and following the most anxiety-ridden taxi journey of his life – they arrived at the front door to 221 Baker Street. Sherlock had barely helped Molly out of the car and was still unstrapping William's seat when the front door flew open and Mrs Hudson was skipping towards them with open arms.

"Oh, my dears!" she exclaimed, completely throwing Sherlock's concentration as he tried to sort out the taxi fare. "It's so good to have you home! Now where is my little William?"

Sherlock duly lifted the (surprisingly heavy) car seat so that Mrs Hudson could admire his son.

"Oh, he's asleep, how adorable!" Mrs Hudson cooed. "Babies love a good ride in the car – always sends them off. Come on, get him inside where it's warm!"

"Exactly what we were planning," Sherlock replied, earning a good-natured swat from his landlady.

"Are John and Rosie home?" Molly asked.

"You just missed them," Mrs Hudson replied, her hand on Molly's elbow as she ushered her over the threshold. "John held out as long as possible, but Rosie was getting so restless that they went to the park to feed the ducks. Shan't imagine they'll be long, though – it's hardly playing outdoors weather."

Once indoors, there was yet more cooing and general adoration in the kitchen of Mrs Hudson's flat, followed by an insistence on photos ("to show the girls at Zumba"). Sherlock was aware of how tired Molly looked, but knew that her inherently lovely nature would prevent her from telling Hudders to back off so she could rest.

"My…ah…my mother and father will be arriving in a couple of hours," Sherlock began, clearing his throat. "We should probably ensure that this young man is fed and freshened up before they get here."

He saw Molly shoot him a discreet but grateful look. Their ability to read each other so quickly had rapidly grown during the last few months – well, _his_ ability, really (it seemed that he'd always been completely transparent to Molly).

"Oh, yes, of course!" Mrs Hudson replied, getting up from the kitchen chair. "And you should have a nice lie down, too, Molly. Sleep when your baby sleeps – isn't that what they say?"

"They do, apparently," Sherlock said. "Although I get the feeling that 'they' are living in somewhere approaching 'cloud cuckoo land'"

It hadn't escaped his notice that no sooner had William fallen asleep and Molly had sorted herself out, been to the loo, had a bite to eat, than their son was awake again and expecting the whole cycle of feeding to resume. Stomach the size of a walnut, Molly had told him, with a gusty sigh.

"Well, your laundry is done, there are new sheets on the bed, and I picked up a few bits and pieces to put in your fridge, so you won't starve," Mrs Hudson continued. "I've taken a few messages, too – they're in a pile on your desk, Sherlock. John's been through the work ones and weeded out the nutcases – the rest are from well-wishers."

Sherlock rose from his seat and pulled her into a hug.

"Hudders, you're a paragon of virtue!" he told her. "And quite patently the best housekeeper in the central London area."

"Landlady, Sherlock," she replied, patting his hand. "Giving me a beautiful godson doesn't change that, I'm afraid."

"Thank you, Martha," Molly put in. "And not just for this, but for everything. I…I don't feel as though I had the chance to say it properly before. If you hadn't been with me, I-"

"Oh hush now," Mrs Hudson smiled. "What matters is that you're both here and you're both healthy. Besides, Holmes men can't do anything without at least a _bit_ of drama – I'm well used to it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He assumed that he was going to be enduring endless supposedly good-natured (read: hellish) 'banter' from this point on. It didn't bear thinking about what his next visit to Scotland Yard would see him subjected to.

"It's just so funny," Mrs Hudson continued, as they moved out into the hallway. "I can still remember the first time you came here and sat in my kitchen, Sherlock Holmes. Such a young thing, just a boy, really. And here you are coming back to this house with a baby of your own."

She had her rose-tinted specs on, that was for sure. Rather than the fresh-faced, puppyish youth Mrs Hudson was idealising, in reality he had just left (escaped from ) rehab and only had a couple of hundred pounds to his name. Landing on Mrs Hudson's doorstep was the only alternative to either vagrancy or crawling on his hands and knees to Mycroft. Now, rather unfeasibly, he had acquired both a brilliant woman and a child who he already loved in a way in which he hadn't thought he was capable.

 _Yeah, but you're still a git_ , he heard John say in his head. Probably quite reassuring, actually – _too_ much change was unsettling.

000000

Less than half an hour later, he was sitting in his old chair again, elbows braced on his knees, fingers steepled under his chin. But this time – instead of an unsolved murder or an international criminal conspiracy - the object of his contemplation was William, asleep on the low table in his car seat.

Molly was asleep, too. She'd stayed awake long enough for a cup of tea, and for them to stand in a long embrace while they watched their son and contemplated the magnitude of this New Beginning – but she was so tired she could barely stand, and she didn't need any persuasion to go to bed.

Sherlock wasn't sure how long he sat there with William, but as soon as he made the decision to get himself another cup of tea, he saw William starting to stir. His little face twisted, as though in disgust. Sherlock froze, waited – perhaps he would settle again? William's features relaxed, only for him to then redouble his efforts and start to emit his stuttering protest.

Quickly, Sherlock unclipped the car seat harness and slid his hands underneath his son to lift him up, cursing as he accidentally caught William's arm in one of the straps, which only served to anger the infant further. Not hurt, just pissed off. Well, he wasn't the first to feel that way as a result of an encounter with Sherlock Holmes.

A brief attempt to show William around his new home only resulted in flat-out rage, by which point Sherlock could hear Molly's concerned voice coming from the bedroom.

"There now, we've woken Mummy," Sherlock told his son. "Or perhaps that was your plan all along?"

William was now bawling and resorting to frustrated head-butts in the general direction of Sherlock's chest. Clearly, his son wasn't going to be happy until he'd taken his case to a higher authority.

Padding through to the bedroom, they found Molly half sitting up in bed, blinking through her exhaustion and pushing her hair out of her eyes. Sherlock felt a sharp pang in his chest, now wishing that he'd been able to delay his parents by a further day so that Molly could at least get one night's sleep at home first (whatever a night with a newborn looked like).

"I, ah, I think he's hungry again," Sherlock said, apologetically. "The tour of 221B wasn't diverting enough for him."

Molly rubbed her eyes with her knuckles, yawning and reaching out for William.

"Come here, sweetheart," she murmured, taking their son from Sherlock.

Sherlock dug into his pocket for his phone, remembering something he had read during his period of idleness while he waited for Molly to start her maternity leave. He held his phone out to Molly, who was at that point wrestling with her pyjama top.

"Apparently, it works lying down," he said, angling the screen so she could see it, and raising his voice to be heard above the godawful din their son was now making.

Molly looked at him sideways - apparently slightly surprised by his depth of breastfeeding knowledge - but she let him take William back while she got herself comfortable and then settled William by her side, making sure he wasn't covered by the duvet. Once their son had calmed down, he realised his needs were being met and he very quickly settled, emitting soft gulping sounds as though he'd been deprived of sustenance for days rather than two hours. Molly looked up at Sherlock with an expression of surprise and delight.

"Wow, it was worth you annoying those mums on the parenting forums all along!" she smiled.

"Yes, well, my IP address is now blocked from several of them, so it's just as well I've got a Mind Palace to call upon," he replied drily. But he couldn't help but feel a spark of pride at having helped to solve at least one small problem – not entirely the rubbish father he feared he might be.

Over the course of the next half hour, Sherlock busied himself with a number of small but satisfying jobs, pausing every so often to put his head around the bedroom door. Molly and William were both asleep, side by side, William's knees pulled up as though trying to resume the foetal position.

Some short while later, Molly padded into the living room alone.

"Are you okay? Do you need something?" he asked, starting to get up from his desk.

She smiled sleepily.

"I'm fine, thank you. I managed to transfer him into the crib," she said. "Never in my life thought _that_ would work."

She came up behind him where he sat, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and leaning down to nuzzle her cheek against his. The warmth of her body was welcome as ever, once again reminding him of what an idiot he was to have shunned this for so long.

"What have you been doing?" she asked, her breath tickling his ear.

"I spent a very agreeable twenty minutes sorting William's clothes into a more logical and pleasing order," he told her. "They are now arranged not only by clothing type, but also colour palette, fabric weight and likely occasion for use."

He saw Molly trying to suppress a smile; she'd always found the ordering of his sock drawer inexplicably amusing.

"I also found an app," he replied, tilting the screen of his phone. "To help keep track of Will's feeding, sleeping and, ah, nappy habits. I've also set reminders on it for his Vitamin K drops, and for your Clexane injections, iron tablets and painkillers. Do you want me to add something to remind you about your compression socks?"

Molly pressed a kiss to his cheek, ruffling his hair on the other side of his head.

"Go on then," she replied. "After all, compression socks are incredibly sexy."

Sherlock cocked his head.

"Well, perhaps if you _just_ wore the compression socks…?"

Molly pulled a face that said clearly said 'pervert' before shuffling off in the direction of the kitchen. He saw the exact moment that her eye caught the gift bag on the coffee table, and she turned back to him, frowning in a questioning way.

"Sherlock…?"

He was suddenly gripped by a concoction of excitement and anxiety, and tried to swallow it down, keep things casual.

"It's, um…a sort of 'welcome home' present. Presents."

The look Molly now gave him was full of such naked affection that he actually felt himself start to blush. They did not make a habit of giving each other gifts – Molly had made it clear that she didn't expect him to woo her through lavish gestures, and it was enough for him that she kept him all the interesting spare body parts – so he hoped he hadn't missed the mark.

"Can I open it?" she asked, a smile spreading across her face.

"Yes, Molly, that is the general idea," he replied, rising from his chair and walking around into the sitting area to be closer to her.

She started to unpack the bag, meeting his eye with a little smirk as she removed the shredded tissue paper (yes, perhaps that was a touch out of character, but it helped to maintain an element of suspense). He watched as she took out the small lilac-coloured tube, studying the writing printed on it.

"I…I remembered seeing it in John and Mary's bathroom cabinet not long after Rosie was born," he explained. "Not that I was snooping. Well, I was a bit. But anyway, I did some research and it's supposed to be the best thing on the market for cracked nipples. Perfectly safe for babies, too."

Molly's eyes shot up, wide as saucers. Her surprise soon gave way to a fond smile.

Right, while he was on a roll…

"There's a box in there, too; the white and orange one," he gestured. "Some of the women at that NCT thing were talking about it. It's for stretch marks – not that you've got a stretch-mark problem, and even if you did have, you shouldn't care and I certainly don't, but it's supposed to be very effective and actually smells very nice too. Plus, it helps to reduce scarring – not that there's anything wrong with having a scar; in fact, it reminds me of how immensely proud I am of you and what you went through to give us our son, but-"

Molly closed the distance between them and beckoned him down to meet her lips (standing on tiptoes was still a little sore).

"Sherlock, this is incredibly sweet," she murmured against his lips. "When did you get to be so sweet?"

"I don't know," he replied, again feeling a blush rise in his cheeks. "But please don't tell my mother; it'll only make her think she did something right after all."

He nodded towards the bag.

"There are…other things in there, too."

Giggling like a child at Christmas, Molly delved back into the bag, pulling out the Kindle he'd ordered and had delivered to Mrs Hudson.

"I thought it might help you to read when you're feeding William," he offered. "I know you prefer a proper book – as do I – but I imagine it could be rather difficult to hold one of those big Victorian novels you like, one-handed. If you don't like it, I-"

"I love it! Thank you!" Molly told him. "You really didn't need to do any of this, Sherlock."

She came to his side and snaked her arm around his waist, leaning into him.

"Yes, I did," he told her, resting his chin on top of her head. "Anyway, these are all eminently practical gifts."

"They are."

"Nothing frivolous."

"Nope," she smiled.

"Although…" Sherlock said, clearing his throat, which seemed to have suddenly dried up on him. "There is…er…something else…in the bag, I mean."

Giving him another questioning look, Molly picked up the bag and swept around in the bottom until she brought out what he was referring to. A small, black velvet jewellery box.

Molly looked up at him again, anticipation in her eyes, and then back down at the object in her hand. He watched her slowly lift the lid of the box and set eyes on the ring for the first time. He saw her mouth open slightly, her eyes starting to widen before she gently bit down on her bottom lip and glanced up at him. Was she…were those tears in her eyes?

"Are you…is it…okay?" he asked, tentatively.

The words were barely out of his mouth before Molly had grabbed onto his elbow, hauled herself up onto the chair to cancel out the height difference, and was kissing him thoroughly and passionately; he could feel her smile against his mouth. Fearful of her current physical frailty, Sherlock grabbed hold of her waist, taking her weight while he returned the kiss with equal ardor.

"Sherlock, it's…absolutely beautiful," she breathed, when they broke apart. "I love the style so much – is it 1950s?"

He nodded, a feeling of warmth filling his chest as he realised he'd chosen well.

"Yes, early 1950s, transitional cut," he told her. "I know it doesn't look showy as such, but I thought it elegant and understated…and well, I thought it would look nice with the style of dress you favour. I…I pictured you in that dress with the red, you know, flowers…from Rosie's christening."

Molly gave him a little questioning smile, looping her arms around his neck.

"You remember that?"

He angled his head back so that he could look at her properly.

"It was a little distracting," he told her. And yes, he knew by this confession that he was admitting to both of them that he had started to see Molly in a different light even _before_ Sherrinford.

"Oh, really?" she replied, raising a sceptical eyebrow. "Because what I recall is that your eyes were on your phone the whole time."

"Not the _whole_ time."

She allowed him to set her feet back down on the floor before he held out his open hand to her.

"Will you allow me?"

Molly let him take the jewellery box, and her gently lifted the ring from it before setting the box on the table. Locking her eyes with his, Sherlock took Molly's left hand and slowly slipped the ring on, caressing it with his thumb when it came to rest at the base of her finger. He brought her hand up to his lips, letting them linger on her knuckles for a moment.

He had had Molly's answer for two days, so the rush of joy and relief he felt right then at the physical act of placing a ring on Molly's finger was unexpected and strangely humbling.

"I have been waiting to do that for a very long time," Sherlock smiled. _Probably much longer than is wise to dwell on,_ he added to himself. It would probably also be A Bit Not Good to share the other thought that had immediately struck him; namely that the ring he had put on Molly's finger suited her a thousand times better than the – in his opinion - oversized, gaudy number that she had been wearing a couple of years earlier. He would just have to bask in his smugness quietly.

Just then, a noise chimed out from his phone.

"Ah. My parents' arrival is imminent," Sherlock said, reaching into his pocket.

"How do you know?" Molly asked, still – he noticed, with yet more smugness – half-distracted by the ring.

"I found another app," he told her.

Molly frowned, pursing her lips.

"Sherlock, you didn't plant a GPS tracker on your mum's phone, did you?"

"Of course not. Most of the time, I have no interest whatsoever in where my mother is," he replied. "This particular app just sounds an alert when she comes within a mile of Baker Street. It was really very simple – all I needed was her SIM number. One pound forty-nine very well spent."

Molly bumped her hip against his.

"Well, better get used to hearing that noise a lot more from now on," she smirked. "I don't think there's much that comes between a new grandparent and their grandchild."

Sherlock shuddered slightly at the thought of it – good God, maybe his parents would make good on that threat of buying 'a little pied-à-terre' in the city, and then he'd never be rid of them!

"And speaking of grandchildren…" Molly said, tilting her head.

Now Sherlock, too, could hear the sound of William making his presence – and his unhappiness – known. Molly hurried off towards their bedroom, and he followed close behind her, eager to snatch a few more moments of serenity with his family (well, serenity once William was occupied with feeding).

But it wasn't to be. Because, instead, there was the sound of the brass knocker downstairs.

Sherlock looked to Molly pleadingly – Molly, whom his parents adored, and in whose eyes she could do no wrong - but she was already settling herself and William onto the bed.

"That'll be them, then," she smiled. "Go on."

"Sherlock!" came Mrs Hudson's echoed voice from the bottom of the stairs. "Your parents are here!"

"I have past success in surviving a jump from the living room window," he said quickly to Molly. "I'm suddenly willing to test out whether that was a fluke."

"Go on!" Molly repeated in a loud whisper, this time with more insistence. "And be nice."

Sherlock snorted.

"I think we both know I'd stand a better chance with the window."


	21. Chapter 21

_**Sorry for the slight delay in getting this chapter together - family holidays tend to do that :-)**_

 _ **Thank you to everyone who has left comments, given kudos or just stuck with me this far - it means a lot. This chapter ended up being a bit of a long one, but I hope you'll stay with it for the duration. Enjoy!**_

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Sherlock had never before taken the trouble to show his parents up to the flat, and on this occasion there was no need - because they seemed to have managed to scale the stairs in record time, startling him slightly when he opened the door. He had more or less assumed that he would be swept aside in his mother's haste to get to her grandchild, so it took him by surprise when instead she threw her arms around him.

"My darling boy!" Wanda Holmes said, pulling her son in close until Sherlock got a lungful of her magnolia perfume. She released him long enough to take his face in her hands.

"It's so _good_ to see you, sweetheart!" she continued. "I hate to think what you must have been through."

"How are you holding up, Sherlock?" his father added, clasping a hand to his shoulder. "You all had quite a scare there."

Sherlock genuinely hadn't anticipated his parents' concern, and he found it was taking some time to process it, let alone compose a response.

"I'm...I'm fine," he said eventually, clearing his throat. "Thank you."

He felt the weight of his mother's gaze on him, that fondness she'd shown towards him at Christmas; the time had passed, he realised, when he would have cruelly rebuffed it or even shrunk from it. He had to allow her that prerogative as his mother, however much it might make him want to jump down the nearest manhole in Baker Street.

"How does it feel?" his father asked with a smile. "Nothing in the world quite like it, is there?"

Sherlock had a horrible feeling that his father was trying to bond with him, and he couldn't think of a polite way to try to disabuse him of this idea. Guaranteed Mycroft would find this particular development greatly amusing.

"So, can we come in and see your family, Sherlock?" his mother asked, her hand on his elbow.

His family. That was immediately how he had viewed - and been referring to - Molly and William since the moment of his son's arrival, but it sounded slightly...odd to hear it from his mother's lips. For forty years he had associated 'family' with the two people standing in front of him, plus the brother with whom he had redefined the term 'sibling rivalry' (Eurus was, of course, another maladjusted addition to this already dysfunctional set-up). He couldn't have predicted that only by creating a family of his own would he discover the means to a more peaceful co-existence with his parents and siblings.

"Would it even be possible for me to halt you in that endeavour?" he asked.

"Not a chance, darling," Wanda Holmes told him, patting Sherlock's arm as she bustled past him into the flat, her husband a couple of paces behind.

It was only then that Sherlock spotted the sizeable suitcase on wheels that his father was pulling behind him. How the hell did he miss it? The castors on the stairs should have been like a klaxon, alerting him to this potentially emergency.

"You're not...staying, are you?" he blurted.

His mother turned to him long enough to roll her eyes before continuing her visual search of the flat for signs of the newest Holmes.

"If you must know, Sherlock, it's full of food," she said, removing her gloves and scarf. "I thought it might be nice for you and Molly to have a few meals to pop in the freezer for the next couple of weeks - the suitcase was by the most practical choice, far less harmful for your father's back. I've made your favourite - ratatouille hotpot. You used to ask for it all the time,"

"That was _Mycroft's_ favourite," Sherlock replied, darkly.

"Yes, well, I'm sure it'll taste better for your not having to cook something from scratch with a new baby in the house."

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something about the six different take-aways that he had programmed into speed-dial, but found himself swallowing that impulse.

"Thank you," he told her, earning a smile from his father. Sherlock supposed that he would probably be just as protective of Molly's feelings - although he was fairly confident that Molly would not turn up at anyone's house with a suitcase full of retro seventies casseroles.

"Oh, and we've brought a few things for lunch, too," his mother continued. "There were a lot of leftovers from Derek and Joyce's New Year's Eve do last night."

"Who?" Sherlock found himself asking, while at the same time acknowledging that he had no interest in the answer.

"You know Derek and Joyce, Sherlock," his mother tutted. "The Harringtons. Live in that mock Tudor monstrosity just along from the Post Office. You came to one of their New Year dos when you were just out of school-"

"He'd just been sent down," Timothy Holmes put in. Trust his father to want to add further 'colour' to an already unwanted anecdote. "The second time."

"Oh yes, that's right. Anyway, you were incredibly rude to their daughter, Claire that evening, and her friends from university - it was a miracle we were ever invited back."

"That doesn't sound like you, Sherlock."

The voice was Molly's, and all three adults in the room turned around at the sound of it. But her eyes - Sherlock couldn't help noticing - were on _him_ , seeking contact, offering reassurance, reminding him that he no longer had to do anything alone. Even dealing with his parents.

And in Molly's arms was William, wide-eyed and chewing on his tiny fist. The surge of protectiveness and pride made Sherlock acknowledge that he was essentially powerless in the face of thousands of years of human evolution. It was bloody ridiculous, but it took all of his self-control not to just blurt out, "Look, Mum and Dad, at this perfect thing I've created!"

Both of his parents were on their feet, his mother taking tentative steps forward, buoyed by Molly's encouraging smile.

"Oh my goodness!" his mother exclaimed softly, her hand clutching something invisible at her chest. Molly caught Sherlock's eye and smiled. Mrs Holmes reached out and gently stroked the back of William's hand, turning so that she could better see his face.

"Oh, my word...he is just...beautiful," she breathed. "Aren't you so beautiful, my sweetheart?"

Sherlock apparently had a rock in his throat - it was the only explanation for why he was suddenly unable to swallow effectively.

"Look at his eyes!" his mother continued. "Oh, Timothy, get over here and look at him - look at our gorgeous little grandson!"

As ever, Sherlock's father did as he was told, moving closer and making the same, tentative first contact. William seemed to be taking it all in, too full of milk and rest to be easily irked by this new external stimuli. Suddenly, Sherlock longed to hold him, but knew he was probably now at the end of a very long queue.

"Do...do you want to hold him?" Molly asked his mother.

His mother honestly looked as though someone had offered her a Nobel Prize or a free, all-inclusive Caribbean cruise.

"Do you really think you have to ask?" Sherlock's father chuckled, before his wife had the chance to answer.

Wanda Holmes tsked at her husband, but went to settle herself down on the sofa, smoothing out her dress, ready to receive her grandson. Knowing Molly would struggle to bend down with their son, Sherlock stepped in to carry out the transfer, pecking her on the lips as he took William from her. (Funny how that was something he could now just _do_ in front of his parents without any question, hesitation or embarrassment.)

In the brief period that William was in transit, he managed to clamp his fist around Sherlock's thumb, and it was with some reluctance that Sherlock prised himself loose and lowered the little boy into his grandmother's waiting arms.

"Oh, Sherlock…" was all his mother seemed to be able to say.

Oh Sherlock indeed. He could see in his mother's eyes that Mycroft had been dead right: everything that he may have achieved leading up to this point was utterly overshadowed by what one incredible and life-redefining night in Molly Hooper's flat had created.

Sherlock backed away, feeling Molly's arm slip around his as he subconsciously - it seemed - gravitated towards her. He moved her yellow chair around slightly, encouraging her to sit so that William could still see her, and being content to lean against the occasional table beside her.

"How are you feeling, Molly?" his father asked, shuffling along the sofa so that he had a good view of his grandson, too. "The whole thing must have been a bit of a shock. We were amazed you were out of the hospital so soon."

"Yeah, well, they like to get you mobile and doing all the normal things as early as possible," Molly replied. "I just hope nothing drops out when I'm next walking to the shops!"

He wasn't, Sherlock reminded himself, marrying Molly for her jokes.

"Oh god, sorry!" she added quickly. "I've just got so used to everyone knowing a weird amount of detail about bits of me that used to be pretty private. Maternity ward humour, I suppose."

His dad, thankfully, was fairly unshockable - a lifetime of his own three offspring had seen to that, if it ever _had_ been a problem.

"I'm fine, thank you," she added again. "Well, fine-ish. I'm actually reasonably confident that nothing _is_ going to fall out. I recognise good stitch technique."

Timothy Holmes chuckled.

"Well, that's reassuring to know," he replied. "We're both very relieved that you're alright - and I know this one is."

He nodded towards Sherlock.

"There's nothing harder than watching the person you love in pain, and being completely powerless to do anything about it," he continued. "I can still remember that so vividly; your mother had to keep me together at the same time as bringing you into the world. I was a hopeless wreck."

"Always so emotional, your father," his mother put in, without taking her eyes off William.

"I make no apologies, my darling," his father replied, smiling broadly.

Sherlock felt Molly's hand slip into his; perhaps she, too, was wondering whether this was a glimpse of _their_ own future. On balance, perhaps not too horrific, but he hoped to God there would be fewer dinner parties, West End musicals and cruise holidays involved.

"Is he feeding well?" his mother asked.

"Um, yeah, he seems to be," Molly replied, tucking her hair behind her ear. "I feel really lucky that he seems to have got the hang of it so easily."

"You must give yourself some of that credit, dear," Wanda Holmes replied. "It's a lot harder than everyone would have you believe. I got such a telling-off from the local midwife because I was feeding Mycroft on demand - and I thought I was going to be lynched in the streets of our village because I gave him a bottle once in a while. When it comes to babies, everyone needs to mind their own business."

"Writing that down now, Mother," Sherlock said, drily.

"Very funny, darling," she replied. "I may have many faults, but I will not interfere when it comes to you and Molly raising your family. Unless you ask me to, of course."

"I will do my very best to hold her to that," Sherlock's father added, with a wink.

"Anyway, William is the picture of health, Molly," his mother continued. "So you are obviously doing what's right for him. He is absolutely perfect."

"I can see what Myc meant about the family jaw," Mr Holmes mused, making Sherlock realise that his brother must have had a conversation with their parents about William - which was...peculiar. His father turned to Molly.

"But I can see from his nose and mouth that he's going to have your smile, my dear."

"Perhaps that's just as well," Mrs Holmes said. "After all, if he had Sherlock's smile, how would any of us ever know?"

"Witty, Mother, thank you," Sherlock replied. "I somehow no longer feel guilty for my reaction to the sight of your suitcase."

"I'm teasing you, sweetheart," his mother smiled, with a wave of her hand.

"Is...that a thing you're planning to make a habit of?" Sherlock asked with some trepidation. The idea that he and his mother might have some manner of relationship built on the foundations of 'banter' was frankly horrifying.

"I shouldn't think so," she replied. "I get the feeling it wouldn't be much fun."

Sherlock's father cleared his throat.

"Well now, surely it must be my turn to have a cuddle with the newest family member?" he said cheerily. Didn't his father find it tiring to be so bloody upbeat all of the time?

Wanda Holmes placed a kiss on the top of William's head before passing him across to her husband. Sherlock felt Molly leaning her head against his thigh where he was standing, and he dropped a hand to her shoulder.

"Oh my goodness!" Mrs Holmes suddenly cried, clapping her hand to her mouth. She was looking at Molly now, and it took Sherlock a couple of seconds to work out why.

"W-what?" queried Molly, a look of cautious concern on her face.

"She's.." - Mrs Holmes nudged her husband's arm with her elbow. "She's wearing a ring; you're wearing a ring, Molly!"

Sherlock could see that Molly was blushing slightly - hard not to, given his mother's steamroller approach - but she was smiling, too.

"Um...yes," she replied. "Sherlock...um...Sherlock proposed."

"When did this happen?" his mother asked, clearly struggling to contain her delight. "You weren't wearing a ring when we saw you before Christmas."

"Two days ago," Sherlock replied, resisting the urge to pass comment on his mother's powers of observation. "I took full advantage of Molly's weak and suggestible state."

He felt Molly shove him playfully in the leg.

"It was actually really lovely," Molly said. She probably felt the need to reassure his mother that he hadn't just hurled an engagement ring across the room at her, or given notice at the registry office without telling her.

"This is…" - good grief, his mother was actually lost for words - "...so wonderful!"

"Agreed," Sherlock said.

"You're actually getting _married_ , darling!"

"So it would seem."

"Congratulations, both of you," Sherlock's father said. "You are a truly remarkable woman, Molly - for most of Sherlock's life, I honestly thought there was more chance of him ending up in some sort of maximum security prison than finding someone to share his life with."

"I _am_ still in the room, Dad, in case it had escaped your notice," Sherlock sighed.

His father chuckled, apparently dismissing any irritation he may have caused.

"Is it too late for a spring wedding?" Wanda Holmes asked, clasping her hands together. "Spring weddings are so lovely."

"Yes, I hear Gretna is lovely in the spring," Sherlock replied, folding his arms and adopting an air of innocence.

"Don't even joke about that, darling!" his mother almost cried in response. "I mean a _proper_ wedding. I'm sure Molly had more in mind than five minutes in front of a kilt-wearing blacksmith."

Sherlock realised then that he actually had no idea what Molly had in mind when it came to a wedding; he didn't like to ask - or even really think about - how far the wedding plans had progressed with Meat Dagger. He quietly hoped that, like him, she mainly wanted to get to the 'being married' bit - although he would summon all of his stoicism if it turned out she wanted a cathedral, seven bridesmaids and a horse-drawn carriage. Probably.

"A blacksmith in a kilt actually sounds quite fun," Molly said, giggling. "But at the moment I feel like I can barely decide what to have for tea, so making decisions about a wedding seems a bit out of my reach. I promise we won't run off without telling you, though."

"Well, not until we've had several hours' head start," Sherlock muttered.

His father, clearly sensing that they were heading into potentially contentious territory, patted his knee.

"Enough of wedding talk for now, I think," he said, with the peacemaking tone Sherlock recognised from his adolescence. "How about I hand this young man back to his mother, and you and I can put some of this lunch together, Sherlock? The ham hock terrine actually isn't too bad, although I tend to steer clear of the mushroom vol-au-vents - it always amazes me what Joyce Harrington is capable of doing to a perfectly innocent mushroom."

Resigned to his fate, Sherlock waited while his father unzipped the trolley-case and handed him tub after tub of leftovers.

"Sherlock," Molly said, adjusting William into a comfortable position on her shoulder. "Send John and Mrs Hudson a quick text to see whether they want to join us. Looks like there's loads."

Wonderful. Why not make it a party?

However, he did as requested, thinking as he did so that it would be chance to properly introduce Rosie to William, on home-turf. Plus, his mother could talk to Mrs Hudson about weddings to her heart's content (they had to have attended more than a hundred of the damn things between them), and give Molly a break from it all. And of course, John ate anything - and in large volumes (probably even slightly suspect mushroom vol-au-vents) - so that would solve any wastage issue and keep his mother happy.

"Um, Wanda, I remember ages ago you mentioning that your family comes from Scotland?" Molly asked. She was using a tone Sherlock recognised and had come to be wary of - whatever was coming next was going to be at his expense. He looked up at her, and sure enough, she caught his eye and raised an eyebrow in his direction.

"You've got a good memory, Molly," his mother replied. "Yes, my mother's family are from Aberdeenshire originally."

"So...that means that, technically, Sherlock could wear a kilt for our wedding...?"

Oh, he couldn't believe she actually did that. And then had the audacity to wink at him when she thought his parents couldn't see her!

"Not happening," he said firmly, planting a large Tupperware on the kitchen island.

"Oh, Sherlock, you should think about it!" his mother said, patting Molly's knee. "You've always had lovely legs."

"That _is_ true, Sherlock," Molly nodded, smiling wickedly at him. How could she betray him like this, and with their newborn son in her arms, too?

"Just like your father," Mrs Holmes continued. "One of the first things I noticed about him back at university."

Sherlock opened his mouth to query the particular circumstances that may have made that observation possible, buy sharply decided that the answer might put him off his lunch. Or in fact put him off food for the rest of his adult life.

"Good news!" he announced, following a fortuitous text alert from his phone. "John is on his way back from the park with Rosie. And he's hungry."

"Oh!" his mother said suddenly. "Speaking of good news, I forgot to mention - from the end of the month, there are going to be three additional direct rail services from Horsham. We can be at Victoria within an hour - isn't that marvellous?"

Oh, Christ on a bloody bike.

Sherlock opened his mouth to say god knows what (although chances were it wasn't going to be in praise of Southern Rail), when he heard Molly clear her throat slightly.

"It's, um, it's a good thing you've got that new app, Sherlock," she said, smiling at him sweetly.

"What app is that, Sherlock?" his mother asked.

"Just a travel app," Molly continued, turning her smile on Wanda Holmes. "Helps him keep track of local arrivals."

"Perfect!" Sherlock's mother replied. "Perhaps you can help me download it later, darling."

Molly caught his eye again, but only momentarily, as she clearly had to avert her gaze and bite down hard on her lip to keep from exploding with laughter. Caught floundering, Sherlock said the first thing that came into his mind, which turned out to be an arse-clenchingly obvious change in conversation topic...

"Lunch!" he declared, before turning on his heels and heading for the kitchen.

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His parents were gone by four o'clock, along with most of Sherlock's reserve of good humour. He had spent an hour huffing around the flat, supposedly tidying, but mostly just displacing things that he knew he then wouldn't be able to find later. The whole living-in-harmony-with-his-parents thing was apparently going to be a long-term project.

They had taken turns sitting - or pacing around the flat - with William, who only seemed happy when he was basking in the comfort of parental body heat. Curling up against Sherlock's chest appeared to be his favoured position, and Sherlock found that he could actually accomplish quite a lot with one free hand, the other one acting as a seat for William's heavily-padded bottom. Molly - who really should have taken advantage of the situation and gone to bed - leaned up against him, dozing, while he worked simultaneously on three cases he picked up via the blog (one had the potential to be a seven - the others barely a three). He could even consult John via text, although John clearly wasn't as skilled at multi-tasking - several of his replies made little sense, and it was only when Sherlock tuned in to the sound of the building's pipeworks that he realised his friend was trying to bath Rosie at the same time.

When Molly awoke, he offered to get them some tea, but she insisted he stay seated while William was comfortable (he wasn't going to argue - never had doing something so sedentary actually felt so _useful_ ).

"You do realise that you are at _least_ fifteen per cent sexier with a baby on your shoulder," Molly grinned, as she returned from the kitchen with two mugs of tea and a plate of biscuits.

Sherlock uttered a low chuckle.

"Seems rather a pointless move on the part of human evolution," he replied. "I can't imagine many women would want to start work on the next baby quite so soon."

"Yeah, sorry," she smiled. "Even if I didn't feel like I'd run into a brick wall, I'm under midwife's orders to keep your man parts away from me for six weeks. That, and driving a car - although given that we don't have one, that's probably going to be less of an issue,"

"Well, my 'man parts', as you so charmingly call them, will be waiting where you last left them," he told her.

Molly handed him a mug, which he sipped from carefully, craning his neck as far away from William as possible. His son would just have to tolerate being showered with biscuit crumbs - but babies were hardly known for their fastidious natures, anyway.

He looked across at Molly, her hands wrapped around her mug; he used to steal looks at her like this all the time, back before all of _this_ happened, and he would always be grateful that he no longer had to hide it.

"Was...was this afternoon awful?" he asked.

Molly's face broke into a soft smile.

"No, Sherlock, it was fine - nice even," she replied. "I mean, I felt so tired I could barely string together a coherent sentence, but it was...nice to see your mum and dad so happy, nice to see how much they care about William - and about us, too, I guess."

Sherlock licked his lips, placed his mug on the side table.

"You...ah...you seemed a little quiet after lunch."

At first he had dismissed it as fatigue, but Molly was used to double shifts in the morgue and was never anything less than razor-sharp.

"It was…" she began, breathing out deeply. "I suppose...it's hard not to think about my mum and dad sometimes. You know, wondering...wondering what they would feel about this, how they would be with William. Wishing they...could have seen him, seen _this_."

Sherlock felt the pace of his heart increase slightly. He had always been privately afraid that he was ill-equipped to deal with this sort of thing, with offering Molly support with complex emotional issues; he didn't exactly have a healthy track record in dealing with his own. But he couldn't let that be an excuse.

"Molly," he began, swapping the hand holding William so that he could offer her his free one. "How could they possibly be anything other than enormously proud? Not just of William, but of everything you've done and everything you _are_."

He was acutely aware of the inadequacy of his words.

"Of course, any parent worth their salt should probably question your choice of life partner," he added, giving her a sideways look.

A smile spread across Molly's face, and she scooted up the sofa to wrap her arm around his.

"It's true there aren't many like you in Northampton," she grinned. "But I know they would have liked you."

Sherlock snorted, unconvinced.

"Anyway," Molly continued, smiling. "Mum married Dad against her parents' wishes, so it's not like they could really have said anything."

He took this information in, adding it to the scant detail he had so far gleaned about Molly's family. He was vaguely aware of an aunt and a couple of cousins, but it made him briefly wonder how many would be on the wedding guest list. If she was happy to keep it small, however, that was perfectly fine with him. But Sherlock realised that despite never having met Molly's mother and father, he felt their absence too, in a strange way; there was an imbalance he could do nothing to rectify. Still, family had always been about more than just blood-ties, and Sherlock knew they were fortunate in that regard - that William would never miss out, would never be left wanting for love.

Just then, there was the sound of a text alert from his phone. Balancing William, he picked it up from the arm of the sofa and checked. Molly looked at him questioningly.

"Mycroft," he muttered, scanning the short message.

 _ **Check your email - a response to your communiqué.**_

Sherlock dragged down his email alerts and opened his inbox. At the top was a message from a domain he didn't recognise, with a large audio file attached. The file, he saw, was simply called 'William'.

Immediately, he knew.

"It's from Eurus," he said, his thumb hovering over the file.

He glanced at Molly, seeing an expression of trepidation descend like a curtain across her face. He couldn't help but feel it, too, but he was certain that Mycroft knew the content of the file - and he trusted that his brother would never put William in danger.

He tapped the file and it immediately began to download, the bar zipping across the screen in a matter of seconds. As it opened, Sherlock heard the opening notes of one of the most exquisite pieces of violin music he had ever experienced; the quality of the recording was inferior, but there was no mistaking the beauty and depth of the piece. He could see from the corner of his eye that Molly's eyes were watching the screen of his phone intently, saw her expression shift from one of unease to something approaching captivation.

The music was deceptive in its complexity; the melody was reminiscent, on occasion, of a nursery rhyme, but Sherlock knew from his own compositions that there was nothing simple about it. It was a delicate, soaring arrangement, but more than that was what he heard from _within_ the music - the heartfelt voice of his sister, reaching out, offering all that she could. The piece of music was a gift on the occasion of William's birth, certainly, but Sherlock couldn't help but feel that it was meant for him, too.

"That was...beautiful," Molly whispered, when the three-minute piece finished. "Do...do you think she had been working on it for a while?"

Sherlock exhaled, realising only then that he had been holding in his breath.

"It's possible," he replied. "But it's also entirely plausible that she composed and perfected the whole thing in the past couple of hours. Eurus is perfectly capable."

Molly reached across Sherlock so that she could gently stroke their son's fist, which was balled up against his father's chest.

"What do you think it means?" she murmured.

Sherlock shook his head, not sufficiently confident of his instincts to speak them aloud to Molly.

"I don't know," he told her. "But hearing it doesn't scare me."

Molly looked up at him, her mouth pulling up slightly at one corner.

"Me neither," she said, as though the thought had just occurred to her.

Molly tilted her face upwards and Sherlock was able to lean down far enough to capture her lips in a slow, reassuring kiss. Her hand came up to caress his cheek, while his free hand found hers and entwined their fingers. He was falling in love with Molly Hooper more and more each day.

"I think I'm going to go to bed for a bit," she said when they separated. "I'll take him with me, see if he wants another feed before bedtime."

"When's bedtime?" Sherlock asked, his brow furrowed as he gingerly transferred William into Molly's arms. He genuinely had no idea.

"Figure of speech," Molly replied. "Pretty sure we're kidding ourselves if we think a two-day old baby has a bedtime."

Sherlock smiled, rising from the sofa to kiss their son's head as he shifted about, burrowing into Molly's chest.

"I'll wake you for some supper," he told her. "My mother has apparently made something called a ratatouille hotpot. Culinary time-travel, by the sound of it."

Molly laughed, adjusting William on her shoulder as she headed out of the room.

"As long as it's hot and I don't have to make it, I don't care," she replied over her shoulder.

Sherlock glanced across to his desk where his Stradivarius rested among the piles of papers and lab reports.

"Would...would it disturb you if I composed for a while?" he asked, causing Molly to turn in the doorway to their bedroom.

She smiled, reading him in a second, understanding him immediately.

"Of course not," she told him. "She needs a reply."

Sherlock nodded his thanks, and crossed the room to the desk, picking up his violin and swinging it into position with one deft movement. His head full of his newborn son, the woman he loved, and the adventure they had just begun together, Sherlock picked up his bow and began his correspondence to his sister.

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 _ **Feedback would be very welcome as ever :-)**_

 _ **Just one more chapter to go...and possibly a little epilogue, too.**_


	22. Chapter 22

_***Deep breath* Final chapter!**_

 _ **Thank you to everyone who has read this far - I hope this won't let you down!**_

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Rosie was wriggling in his arms as he dropped his bag onto the hall floor and closed the door behind them. It was easier to put her down while he locked the front door, but John knew he had about ten seconds before his daughter would race through the hall and start spider-crawling up the stairs at high-speed.

"Wooah, not so fast, Rosie," he said, scooting after her and scooping a hand under her stomach.

"Moll!" Rosie said insistently.

"You'll see Auntie Molly later," John assured her in a low voice. "And Uncle Sherlock, and baby William. They're all sleeping now."

"Meow?"

"No, sweetheart, Toby is having a holiday with Nana Martha, isn't he?" John reminded his daughter. "Which is exactly where we're supposed to be going now. This way."

He set Rosie back on course, and while John knew that Mrs Hudson must have heard them in the hallway, she waited until Rosie had gone through the ritual of knocking on the front door before opening it.

"Good morning, my little Rosie!" Mrs Hudson trilled, placing her hands on her knees and bending down to greet her goddaughter. "Don't you look pretty this morning? Has Daddy tried to do something different with your hair?"

John bit down on a sarcastic reply – after all, it didn't pay to insult the free childcare - but it had taken twenty bloody minutes to brush the tangles out of Rosie's curly locks and corral them into two admittedly very underwhelming pigtails.

"They're a bit high on her head, John," Mrs Hudson continued, waggling her finger in the direction of said pigtails.

"Feel free to tinker with them, Mrs H," he replied, clamping his mouth into a straight line.

"Well, we'll leave them for now and see what we fancy later," she said, taking Rosie's little rucksack from him. "I think we might do some baking this morning, so maybe best the hair _is_ out of the way after all."

"Sounds good," John replied, watching his daughter disappear into the recesses of his landlady's small flat. "I mean, thank you – Rosie will love that."

"We might see if we can visit little William later, too," Mrs Hudson said, adding in a conspiratorial whisper, "Might help her understand that he isn't going anywhere."

William John Bartholomew Holmes was now one week old, but John's daughter was still fairly adamant that he was only visiting, and that he would soon be returning to Molly's tummy – or possibly some other, unnamed faraway place. Rosie adored Molly and Sherlock, so it was understandable, John supposed, that she would feel she was being usurped. Or maybe she was just siding with Toby.

"Good idea," John nodded, glancing at the wall clock in Mrs Hudson's kitchen. "So, Marie will come for Rosie around eleven, and she'll drop her back at four, but I should be back by then anyway. All of Rosie's usual things are in the bag."

"We'll be fine," Mrs Hudson smiled. "Won't we Rosie? Oh, I think she's got into my knitting. Never mind – it wasn't going very well anyway."

John tried not to think too closely about knitting needles – if he went ploughing into the flat after his daughter now, he'd never get away.

"Don't forget, Mrs H," he said, shouldering his backpack. "We've got the thing later. I'll call a cab so you won't have to walk."

"Oh, don't worry about me, John!" Mrs Hudson said, with a dismissive wave. "It's only around the corner and my hip's actually been a lot better. I've been seeing a new masseur – lovely young chap called Troy. He's Australian, you know; lovely accent, very handsome."

"Okay!" John said, overcompensating on the airiness. This conversation did not need to go any further. "Right, well, I will see you later."

"Rosie! Come and say bye-bye to Daddy," Mrs Hudson called. "She's probably looking for the cat. He's a spoiled little thing and no mistake."

John snorted.

"Well, I think it's probably compensation for having to live with Sherlock," he told her. "I'm still waiting for mine. And I want to be paid in more than Whiskas Treats Sticks."

Rosie appeared in the kitchen again, and John bent down to allow her to run into his arms. She was holding a lethal-looking knitting needle and trailing a ball of turquoise wool behind her. As he hugged her, he tactfully removed the small spear from his daughter's hand and held it out to Mrs Hudson. As soon as the hug and kiss were completed, Rosie was off again, babbling happily and no doubt looking for the next hazard within easy reach. Being a toddler was just one extreme sport after another.

"You back on the bike, then?" Mrs Hudson asked, her arms folded, a finger waving in the direction of his Lycra.

"Well, I don't wear this for fun, Mrs H," he replied.

"No, I don't suppose you do," she replied in a thoughtful tone. "A bit… _cold_ for that kind of get-up, isn't it?"

Alright. Now he really had to go. Nothing was going to make him stand there while an eighty-year old woman carried out a visual assessment of his spandex-clad anatomy – not even free childcare.

"Going to go upstairs now," John told her. "Quick errand before I head to the surgery."

"Say hello for me," Mrs Hudson replied airily. "Tell them we'll be up later for a cuddle."

"With Sherlock? Good luck with that."

"With William, you silly goose!" she tutted, dismissing him with a wave and closing the door to return to Rosie.

John tramped up the stairs to 221B and knocked on the door. He still had a key, but hadn't used it since the traumatising occasion several months ago when he had caught Sherlock and Molly _in flagrante_ – probably unlikely they'd be doing anything like that at this moment, but it wasn't worth the risk.

After a few moments had passed, he knocked again. This time, he was startled by the door being flung open.

" _What?!_ "

In front of him stood Sherlock – or a version of Sherlock that John Watson had never seen before. He was dressed in a rumpled t-shirt (that may or may not have had an unsightly vomit stain on the shoulder) and pyjama trousers, with his hair resembling a wild blackberry bush and what looked like two days of stubble around his jaw. He peered angrily at John through squinted eyes, his – seemingly wide awake - infant son supported in one arm.

"Morning, Sherlock," John said brightly.

"WHAT in the name of all that is holy could you _want_ right now, John?! It's the middle of the night!"

Oh, this was fun. So much fun he wished he didn't have to go to work.

"Er, it's actually just after seven-thirty, Sherlock," John told him. "I'm here to give Molly her last Clexane injection."

He saw Sherlock looking him up and down, looking genuinely perplexed.

"Why are you dressed like that?"

John sighed.

"I'm about to cycle to work. I'm working an early shift at the surgery, so thought I'd come by first and get it over with."

William let out a single mewling cry, and Sherlock – automatically, it seemed – started to rock from foot to foot in an attempt to create a soothing motion. God, Mary would have loved to have seen this.

He looked, however, as though he was gearing up to hurl some kind of protracted insult, so John seized the upper hand.

"Of course, none of this would be necessary if you hadn't been such a baby about it," he said. "No offence to my godson."

Despite – or perhaps because of - Sherlock's extensive historical experience with hypodermic needles, the man hadn't been able to bring himself to inject his fiancée with a daily dose of anticoagulant. It wasn't even a big needle, more like an epi-pen. Molly had tried it herself the first day, but had ended up giving herself a huge, raised bruise on her thigh – it had been a while, she pointed out, since she'd used a needle on the living.

At that point, Molly shuffled in through the doorway in a button-down pyjama top and shorts, plus compression socks. She yawned, pushed her long hair out of her face and made a brave attempt at a smile. John remembered all too well what it was like in the early days of parenthood, when the time on the clock really meant sod-all.

"Hi John," she said, suppressing another yawn before adding, to Sherlock, "Will you change him?"

Sherlock nodded wordlessly, shuffling off to the bedroom with his son. He returned a few moments later, just as Molly was handing John the Clexane jab; he was carrying a nappy and a pack of wipes, a fresh baby vest and onesie draped over his shoulder.

Mary would _really_ have loved to see _this_.

"Not a word, Watson," he growled. "This is _not_ a spectator sport."

"Shame," John replied, smiling, removing the cap from the Clexane. "I definitely think I could have sold tickets."

Molly pulled up the leg of her shorts slightly and John very quickly administered the jab. He handed her the empty needle to put in the sharps box the hospital had provided.

"You can stop wearing those now, too," he told her, nodding towards the compression socks.

"Oh, thank God," Molly sighed, sitting back down and starting to peel off the offending socks. "I think I might give them a ceremonial burning in the garden later on."

"Save them," Sherlock commented over his shoulder. "I'm interested in testing their response to different solvents."

John saw Molly throw him a strange look.

"It's an ongoing project," Sherlock explained, distractedly, with a wave of his hand. "That's where that orange brassiere of yours went, too – the one you said didn't fit properly anymore."

Molly responded by throwing the compression socks at Sherlock's head, scoring a direct hit.

John moved to stand behind Sherlock and the changing mat, where William was squirming fussily. He watched Sherlock clamp a steadying hand over son's middle, while using his other hand to carry out the necessary stages of changing a nappy.

"What are you doing, John?" Sherlock demanded without looking up.

"You've got that down to a fine art, mate," he said, grinning.

"It's a nappy. I'm not a complete imbecile."

"You wait until he's rolling," John continued. "That's when the fun really starts."

"Undoubtedly," Sherlock replied, matching his sarcasm.

But as John stood up straight again, turning to talk to Molly, he noticed Sherlock placing a quick kiss on William's rounded tummy before fastening the snaps on his vest. He was a bloody big softy, and John wasn't going to say anything that might make his friend change that behaviour.

"How's he doing?" John asked.

"Good, I think," Molly replied, wandering into the kitchen and bringing a teapot down from the cupboard. "Certainly enthusiastic about feeding."

"Less so about sleeping in a crib," Sherlock put in, wearily. "He seems to have a fundamental objection to lying on his back."

"Probably feels unnatural," John suggested. It probably wasn't a good time to mention what a good sleeper Rosie had been almost from the start, sleeping through the night at three months. "Anyway, he looks great, don't you, mate?"

John reached out to stroke a knuckle down William's cheek.

"Your daddy looks like something the cat dragged in," John continued. "But you look great. Funny that, because Daddy used to love telling me how he didn't need as much sleep as us mere mortals."

He heard Molly snigger behind him.

" _Completely_ different, John," Sherlock replied, darkly, stroking his long fingers over William's scalp. "Anyway, don't you have patients to see – boils to lance, corns to remove, genial chit-chat to dispense?"

"Indeed I do," John replied, turning towards the door. "Oh, and by the way, happy birthday, Sherlock."

Just as he thought, when he turned back, Sherlock was wearing a completely blank expression, which gradually morphed into confusion. Molly looked similarly bewildered.

"It's not my birthday," came the reply.

 _Wait for it_. John counted in his head.

"Dear god, it _is_ my birthday!"

John saw Molly look across at Sherlock apologetically, while Sherlock wore an expression of disbelief, presumably lamenting what parenthood had already done to his brilliant brain.

"We're going for cake later," John told them, his hand on the door handle. "Mrs Hudson and Greg are coming, too. Heading to the cake place at four-thirty."

"William is seven days old, John," Sherlock replied.

"I'm not suggesting that _he_ has cake," John grinned. "In fact, as a physician, I'd strongly advise against it. But it's time he had an outing with the godparents – and don't worry, Rosie will be causing chaos, too, so it'll be fine."

John had a brief flashback to the exact same day the previous year, sitting around a table at the cake place with Rosie, Molly and a dishevelled-looking and drug-weakened Sherlock. In just three short months, Molly would be pregnant, which at the time would have seemed as unlikely as…well, pretty much anything John's imagination could come up with.

"That gives us eight hours," Molly mused. "I reckon we can get ourselves organised in eight hours."

"I once solved fourteen cases in eight hours," Sherlock said, a note of pride in his voice.

Molly crossed the room and slipped her arm around his waist.

"Yeah, but yesterday it took you three hours to get organised with William to go and buy breakfast cereal," she laughed. "It was kind of redundant by the time you got back."

John smiled; Sherlock Holmes was going to have to reassess his pre-existing notions about what could be accomplished with a small child in tow.

"Anyway, four-thirty," John repeated, opening the door. "You're coming, regardless of what state the three of you are in."

He paused, tilted his head.

"One caveat with that, Sherlock," he added. "No bedsheets."

"But it's my birthday," Sherlock replied wryly, with a mock pout.

"Still, the birthday _suit_ stays out of sight," John told him. "I don't want to add the cake shop to the list of places you're currently banned from setting foot in."

"Fine!" Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes as though under sufferance. "But you're buying me the most expensive cake on the menu. With cream."

"I assumed I'd be doing that anyway," John told him; the git had made sure of it last year, even in his then-enfeebled state.

John saw Molly tug slightly on Sherlock's arm, drawing him down somewhere nearer to her height.

"Happy birthday, my love," she said, bringing them together in a kiss that Sherlock immediately reciprocated.

It was only the second time that John had ever heard one of them use a term of endearment with the other (Sherlock had used to same one in the hospital room, a week earlier), and he felt himself almost blushing at the intimacy of it. It was, he supposed, the first time Molly had been able to use those words.

"Hmm. Thank you, Molly," Sherlock replied, his eyes closing for a moment. He opened them again, clearing his throat. "You're still here, Watson?"

"Just going," John told him, hint taken. "Oh, before I forget – Mrs H is bringing Rosie up later for a visit."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"How later is 'later'?"

John shrugged.

"Dunno. Couple of hours? Why?"

"It's my birthday," Sherlock replied. "I intend to get this one to sleep so that I may take my fiancée back to bed."

John saw a blush instantly bloom on Molly's cheeks, and he had a worrying feeling his own complexion was reflecting his surprise and mild embarrassment.

"Aren't you on a sex ban?" he queried, remembering well the frustrating six weeks following Rosie's birth (well, frustration mixed with extreme exhaustion).

"That's the problem with you, John," Sherlock replied with a tut. "Such a limited imagination."

Molly offered John an apologetic wave – Sherlock's was slightly less apologetic – as he finally closed the door to 221B. John thunked down the stairs to his bike, clipped on his helmet and manoeuvred around the two pushchairs that now resided in the hallway. Two pushchairs. It was hard to believe that the messy, slightly dilapidated bachelor flat he'd moved into with Sherlock all of those years ago was now a family home (albeit still a slightly messy one). Whether they were two families or one unconventional, extended family, he supposed it didn't really matter. John of all people knew that it was futile (and emotionally risky) to try to predict the future, but somewhere in the near future there would be a wedding and – he'd hazard a guess – at least one further addition to the household upstairs. Who knows, maybe even _he_ would arrive at a place where he could think about moving on. Not now, not yet. But sometime.

He stood still for a moment in the hallway. Through the wall, he could hear Mrs Hudson talking away to Rosie – they must have been in the kitchen, maybe making an early start on the baking. Very faintly, he could hear his daughter's babbled responses, and it caused an odd contraction in his chest.

And then suddenly, from upstairs, the unmistakable sound of a very disgruntled newborn baby, exercising his little lungs to full capacity.

Sherlock was going to have to work a little harder before he got his birthday treat, John laughed to himself, as he lifted his bike down the front steps and out onto Baker Street, ready to greet the day.

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 _ **This fic started with John's POV, and I was keen to bring it to an end that way, too.**_

 _ **Of course, there's still an epilogue to come (once I can settle on exactly what it's going to contain!) - look out for that in the near future :-)**_

 _ **Thanks again to all of you readers, reviewers and 'favouriters'; this fic was only ever meant to be a few chapters long, but it took on a life of its own, in part thanks to the lovely feedback!**_


	23. Epilogue

**_…In which there's a wedding and another life-changing decision to be made…_**

 ** _Hope you enjoy, and thank you for sticking with me to the end – it's been a lot of fun!_**

 **6 months later**

It hadn't been the best build-up to a wedding. Everything had been fine until Sherlock decided he wanted to take a case down in Cornwall four days beforehand, confident that he would have it wrapped up within 24 hours – two days max. Two days had turned into three, and on that third day Molly threatened to send Mrs Hudson in her Aston Martin – but this time Sherlock would be made to share the boot with John.

On day four, Molly didn't even have time to be angry, as all of her time was consumed with getting herself and William ready for the wedding. Well, that wasn't quite true – her preparations were instead carried out under a cloud of heightened annoyance. If she wasn't such a patient, reasonable human being (or a pushover – she couldn't decide) Sherlock might have come home to find his latest experiments 'accidentally' contaminated, or his sock drawer 're-organised', or his favourite shirts donated to his homeless network.

Between them, she and Mrs Hudson had been taking care of Rosie, too, and Molly had had to leave both children in their elderly landlady's care while she ran the last few errands like a woman possessed. To Sherlock's pride and delight, William was an early crawler, but Molly was definitely seeing the advantage of having a child who just sat in one place like a pudding. These days, William was often in a futile pursuit of Toby, or trying to keep up with Rosie (who treated him a bit like another pet). Expecting Mrs Hudson to dash after a baby - apparently magnetically drawn to danger, just like his father - was asking a bit much.

By the time Molly went to bed the night before, she had resigned herself to having to make serious excuses the next day; she had already been picturing the look on Sherlock's mother's face. But it wasn't as though life with Sherlock was ever going to be nicely timetabled and easy to predict.

It was the smell that alerted her first – a damp, earthy smell that reminded her of scrabbling through ditches during cross-country running at school. Then, a heavy arm had settled across her, as Sherlock pulled her into a possessive embrace, his nose delving into her neck, an appreciative hum reverberating from his chest. Usually this meant 'I've solved the case; let's have sex', and while Molly had a retort to _that_ fully prepared, this time Sherlock was apparently too tired to even speak, and the next thing Molly knew he was snoring loudly into her ear.

It was only when she got up to answer William's cries from the nursery somewhere around dawn that she realised Sherlock had passed out fully dressed. And covered in mud. Which meant their bed was also covered in mud. A foray into the living room to make an early cup of tea revealed that John Watson was _also_ in their home, equally comatose on the couch, with his donkey jacket over his face.

The act of waking them both up had _almost_ made up for how exasperated she was with them, and saw John tumbling down the stairs to retrieve Rosie from Mrs Hudson, while Sherlock spent much more time than they could really spare recapping his recently-closed case to William (who always looked enthralled, although that was probably more to do with Sherlock's gymnastic eyebrows and theatrical delivery). Eventually, Molly had to almost forcibly shoo him off to the shower, reminding him of where exactly they were all supposed to be in just over an hour.

The car had to wait for them, and the driver had looked positively horrified at the sight of three partially-dressed adults, two distressed infants and half a ton of baby equipment being shoehorned into his vehicle.

The mad scramble from the gates to the front entrance of Mycroft's country home reminded Molly far too much of the opening scenes of _Four Weddings and a Funeral_. Watching that when she was fifteen turned out to be much funnier than inadvertently re-enacting it as a supposedly responsible adult – she even had the floppy-haired posh boy with her, although in her version of events, _he_ wasn't the one doing all of the swearing. Molly had found herself pushing William's buggy at high speed along the gravel path, her pretty new heels stuffed under the pushchair, her hair already coming loose from the up-do she'd fashioned during the car journey. John hadn't even had time to unfold Rosie's buggy, and was jogging slightly ahead of her with the buggy under one arm, his gleefully shrieking daughter in the other, and the tie he hadn't had time to do anything with clamped between his teeth.

Meanwhile, Sherlock had sauntered behind them, perfectly turned out, typing on his phone and managing to make the zoo-themed changing bag on his shoulder look like a stylish accessory. Molly loved him deeply, but at that moment she would have happily drop-kicked her fiancé into Mycroft's koi carp pond.

Thankfully, things had improved after that, and Mycroft's wedding to Lady Smallwood had gone off without a hitch. Attendance at the ceremony was restricted to close family and friends, and as Molly stood beside Sherlock in the summer room, his hand at her waist and their son in her arms, she acknowledged (damn him) that he was forgiven – again.

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A few hours later, Molly was in search of Sherlock. She had managed to settle William in the travel cot in the guest room where they were staying (she hoped Mycroft wouldn't notice the infant teeth-marks on the Victorian four-poster bed), and had set up the iPad as a baby monitor (Sherlock had an app, of course).

She found Sherlock in the drawing room, sandwiched between his mother and father on one side, and some of Mycroft's professional acquaintances on the other (the evening drinks reception was a larger affair). Wanda Holmes had her arm hooked around her younger son's elbow, and had somehow managed to trap him against the wall so that there really was no escape. The look of resignation and despair on his face was priceless. But God, he looked ridiculously handsome in that suit. _You had his baby six months ago_ , Molly reminded herself, _you're allowed to perve with impunity these days_.

"Molly!" he exclaimed on seeing her, the subtext being _for God's sake, help me_.

"Hi," she replied, smiling to his parents and the admittedly very dry-looking individuals that formed the rest of the group. "Sorry. Sherlock, would you be able to give me a hand with something? I can't get the hang of the baby monitor."

"Excuse me, Mother," Sherlock replied, visibly relieved, as he disentangled himself.

"Rescued by the cavalry, eh, darling?" she replied, raising an eyebrow at him and earning a ripple of polite laughter from the group. "At least you didn't drug us all this time to escape our company."

"It's lost the element of surprise now," he replied, with an artificially bright smile.

He extricated himself from the group and followed Molly across the room, immediately digging out his phone.

"What's wrong with the monitor? It really is quite a simple app, Molly."

"Nothing's wrong with it," she replied with an innocent shrug. "You looked as though you needed saving."

As those words sunk in, Sherlock's expression broke into a smile; he took her hand and bent his head to whisper in her ear.

"I _adore_ you, Molly Hooper," he murmured, causing a spike of arousal to course through her, which – given where they currently were – she fought to tamp down.

"Did William go down okay?" he added, interlacing their fingers and starting to lead her out of the room.

"Mm-hm," she replied, leaning into him slightly. "John said he'll be up there until about nine and will keep an eye. I said I'd take over after that, and watch Rosie, too."

Sherlock glanced at his watch.

"Sooo…an hour," he said, pursing his lips.

Molly narrowed her eyes.

"Uh huh…" she replied, cautiously. She could feel Sherlock's thumb caressing the back of her hand.

"It's a pleasant evening," he said. "How about we get some fresh air? I believe my brother has some very rare Japanese asas somewhere out in that garden of his."

Sherlock tugged at the tie around his neck, making a satisfied noise as he pulled it from his shirt and stuffed it into this jacket pocket.

Molly snorted, squeezing his hand.

"Since when do you have any interest in horticulture?"

"Right now I'm interested in anything that will put a comfortable distance between me and the world's most boring wedding guests," he replied. "They're all too tedious for me even to waste time on deducing. At least John and Mary's wedding had a vengeful photographer."

"I think most people here are more likely to die from natural causes," Molly smiled. The average guest actually made Sherlock's parents seem very youthful.

Sherlock smiled, taking her hand to help her down the few steps into the garden.

"You're picturing them on the mortuary slab right now, aren't you?" he said. "Wondering what interesting things you might find if you carried out their post-mortems?"

Molly grinned.

"Got to keep my hand in while I'm away from work," she replied.

The gardens at the back of the house were vast and beautiful, at their peak in early June. It was still light, the sun low, and a still-warm breeze softly fluttered her wrap and the hem of her dress. Molly couldn't begin to imagine how much effort went into maintaining the grounds – although she was fairly certain none of that effort would be Mycroft's. The four adults at 221 could barely keep on top of the postage-stamp-sized lawn at the back of their own home.

"You know, I thought that John might, um, bring someone with him today," Molly ventured, looking at Sherlock for his reaction.

He frowned, his brows arching up in the middle, the corners of his mouth turned down.

"He did bring someone with him."

Molly rolled her eyes, even though he wasn't likely to see it.

"I mean _other_ than his two-year old daughter, you pillock," she replied, smiling. "A date."

This time Sherlock glanced down at her as though to check she wasn't having a psychotic episode.

"What date?"

"I dunno," Molly replied. "I just thought…lately I thought that he might be seeing someone. Haven't wanted to ask, though, in case it's nothing…or in case he thinks I'm…I don't know…prying."

Sherlock looked off to one side for a moment.

"Seems a bit soon."

Molly had anticipated that he would react like this if she mentioned it, but at the same time she felt she needed to prepare Sherlock for the possibility.

"Mary's been gone nearly two and a half years, Sherlock," she said carefully. "To you and I it's probably flown past, but…it's a long time to…be on your own."

She saw Sherlock swallow.

"I thought…" he began. "I had hoped that coming back at Baker Street might help he and Rosie to feel…less on their own."

Molly felt a surge of affection for him at that moment; anyone who claimed that Sherlock Holmes wasn't capable of compassion and empathy didn't have the first clue. His friends came first, always.

"Yeah, and I'm sure that's helped a lot," she said softly. "But…I don't know…sometimes a person needs something more, Sherlock. I did. I think you did, too."

He turned to look at her, the intensity of his gaze confirming her assumption.

"But for me there's only ever been you, Molly," he replied, his words and tone so sweet and boyish that it sent a rush of warmth to her chest. The implication was, she knew, that he couldn't contemplate loving someone else – and she couldn't either, not anymore, but still..

"I miss Mary," she said, playing with his fingers as they walked. "I loved her, she was my friend and…without her, without what she did, you probably wouldn't be here with me now, and William wouldn't exist…But you know she wouldn't have wanted John to be alone forever – she loved him too much for that. And he's not the type, either."

"So, you're saying he needs to be allowed to return to his ludicrous flirting?" Sherlock asked.

"When he's ready…yes," she smiled.

Sherlock heaved a gusty sigh.

"I hear what you're saying, Molly," he said. "But, really, it was incredibly tedious to be around, not to say frustrating in the extreme; the man could barely concentrate when there was an attractive female within a fifty-metre perimeter. It's a wonder we solved any cases at _all_ when he was single."

When she looked up at Sherlock, Molly saw that behind the bluff was a softness, an attempt at understanding – if only for her sake at the moment. He knew now what it was to have eyes for more than just The Work - and that there were some distinct benefits to that.

As they walked further, hand-in-hand, the sound of the string quartet in the house began to subside and the other guests became indistinct silhouettes in the windows. Partially hidden behind some huge gardenias and rhododendrons, Molly realised that there was another small building up ahead.

"Oh, I had no idea there was a summerhouse!" she exclaimed, walking more quickly as they approached, pulling Sherlock along behind her.

"D'you think this leads to your brother's secret nuclear bunker?" Molly giggled.

"I'd guess at underground tunnel to the nearest French patisserie," he replied.

Molly tried the handle. Locked.

Before she had time to say anything, Sherlock had dug something out of his pocket and was working on the lock.

"You brought your lock-picker to your brother's wedding?" she asked, bemused (but at the same time weirdly turned on – she wouldn't think about that too closely).

"Of course," he replied, not taking his eyes off the lock. "Mycroft has dozens of locked doors and cabinets in his house – it's pretty much an invitation. He'd be disappointed in me if I _didn't_."

"Isn't this still just breaking and entering, though?" Molly frowned, doing nothing – she realised – to discourage him from his endeavours (Sherlock Holmes had well and truly corrupted her, it seemed).

"This is barely a lock," he replied in a mutter. "Our son should be perfectly capable of disabling one of these before his third birthday."

Molly opened her mouth to object to that suggestion, but before she could formulate her protest, the lock popped open and Sherlock stood back to let her in.

The summerhouse didn't smell musty as Molly thought it might – clearly it had been used (or aired) fairly recently. Instead of the rattan furniture that might have been expected, in the middle of the summerhouse was a heavy, antique desk with a chair behind it, indicating that Sherlock's brother did indeed work out of there on occasion. Molly wasn't even sure how he'd got it through the doors – she was just starting to wonder whether Mycroft might possibly have had the summerhouse built _around_ his desk when she realised she was being backed up against it.

The fingers of Sherlock's right hand had interlaced with her left, his other coming up to rest at her waist. As Molly glanced up to query what was going on, the look on his face told her quite clearly that she didn't need to ask. He dipped his head to capture her mouth with his, the firmness of his kiss taking her by surprise and causing her to utter a little shriek; his resulting chuckle hummed through her body, as the hand at Molly's waist now held her more firmly.

Molly put a hand to his chest to steady them both, guiding Sherlock to softer, slower kisses (he had a tendency, sometimes, to go from nought to sixty within a few seconds). He pulled away momentarily to press kisses to her jaw, her ear, her neck.

"I missed you," he murmured, as Molly felt his hand travelling northwards from her waist. "Four nights in a twin room with John Watson, and all I could think of was _this_."

"Hope you kept your thoughts to yourself," Molly giggled, his hair tickling her neck.

They were back to kissing now, and this time Sherlock wouldn't be slowed in his efforts. With a small grunt of effort – mostly for dramatic effect – Sherlock lifted Molly onto the edge of the desk. He then popped his jacket button (another quirk she found weirdly arousing) and braced his hands on the surface to either side of her. Molly's arms wound around his shoulders, encouraging him closer, her fingers carding through the hair at the nape of his neck. She felt his knee nudge her legs slightly apart, allowing his thighs to settle comfortably - familiarly - between hers – _oh yes, she'd missed this too_.

Molly slipped off her shoes and hooked her ankles around Sherlock's knees to bring them even closer together, reaching up to slide his jacket off his shoulders, which he shrugged out of without breaking the kiss. Now his hands went to the sides of her face, allowing her the access to start working on the fastening of his trousers. She felt Sherlock chuckle against her mouth – it was, after all, confirmation that he was about to get as lucky as he thought.

"Wait," she said, hearing just how breathy she sounded. "Have you got…did you bring…?"

He stilled, his lips at the corner of her mouth.

"They're upstairs in the room," he replied, huskily. "What about in your bag?"

Molly shook her head, holding up her tiny yellow clutch bag as evidence.

"You're usually carrying something the size of a steamer trunk," Sherlock said, sounding almost irritated.

"Not to a wedding!" she retorted, adding with a sigh, "We should probably wait until we're back upstairs."

At that, Sherlock actually let out a moan.

"It's miles away!" he protested. "And we might wake up William."

What he meant, Molly knew, was that they would be in the _same room_ as William, and Sherlock felt particularly squeamish about having sex with their sleeping son a few feet away. It made Molly wonder whether he'd accidentally walked in on his parents when he was young.

Sherlock's hands were on her thighs, the tips of his fingers having slid underneath the hem of her now-bunched-up A-line dress. He made no attempt to move them.

Molly sighed.

"Sherlock, I'm in the middle of my cycle – this is exactly the _worst_ point for us to be having unprotected sex."

He didn't reply for a moment, his fingers tracing slow, idle circles on her thighs.

"Unless…" he began. "Unless…we don't care about that…?"

It took Molly a second to grasp his meaning, but when she glanced up at him, his eyes confirmed it.

"Sherlock, William is six months old – I'm not even back at work yet!" she hissed.

"Why are you whispering, Molly?"

"I don't know!" she blurted. "But have you also forgotten that our own wedding is in just under three months' time? That I could be throwing up on our wedding day? On our honeymoon?"

This seemed to give him pause for a moment, clearly considering the impact on the must-anticipated Sex Holiday (even though, with William in the picture, it would probably be less a holiday and more a stolen night in a central London hotel).

She watched a little frown appear on his face, saw him swallow. He cleared his throat quietly.

"But…we do _want_ another child…don't we?" he asked, suddenly sounding uncertain.

Molly couldn't help but lift her hand to his face, bringing her thumb to rest on his cheekbone.

"Yes," she said. "But…you want to do this _now_? This isn't just because you don't want to go all the way to the house for a condom?

She laughed nervously, but immediately felt guilty when she saw that he looked a little hurt.

"That would be quite a long-term consequence to short-term laziness, I agree," he replied. "But no, Molly, while I may be extremely keen to have – frankly long-overdue – sexual intercourse with you, I would also be very happy if it resulted in another addition to our family. If you agree, of course."

He lifted her hand to brush his lips across her knuckles. Molly let out a puff of breath, her other hand braced around his bicep. She could feel that he was waiting on her response.

"Okay," she said finally, quietly.

She saw Sherlock blink.

"Okay what?"

Molly's face broke into a smile, which barely conveyed the pleasant swarm of butterflies that were invading her abdomen.

"Okay, we should get started on baby number two," she said, simply, linking her fingers with Sherlock's. "Although this time you have to share the parental leave with me, because I do want to go back to work sometime before I'm forty – and preferably before I forget everything about my job."

A small smile played on Sherlock's lips.

"Are we… _negotiating_?"

Molly raised an eyebrow at him.

"Well, _you_ forgot to bring a condom and _I'm_ the one who has to give up my body for nine months, so…um, yeah, we are," she smiled.

Sherlock dipped his mouth to hers again.

"Do you want it in writing?" he asked, when they broke the kiss.

"I can probably ask for it on audio," Molly replied. "I'm pretty sure your brother has even his own summerhouse bugged."

Sherlock's pupils slowly began to dilate as he took in this information – presumably at her willingness to proceed, home surveillance be damned. Molly saw them further dilate to the point of inky blackness as her fingers toyed with button of his suit trousers.

Her other hand found the back of his neck, drawing his face down to hers. Molly's lips paused at his ear, and she noted with a little smugness her ability to make him shiver despite his dominant position.

"Well, then, Sherlock Holmes," she whispered. "It looks like the game is on…"

 **THE END**

 ** _There is the possibility of a sequel at some point – would genuinely like to know what everyone thinks it should include (partly because my brain is too tired to do this for me!)…_**


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